


the broken radio is playing suicide

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Public Sex, Road Trips, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Wolf!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 73,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles only wishes they could actually be safe. They haven’t been for nine months now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's the first part to my 40k monster (40k as of now), alternatively referred to as "the shitty fic". 
> 
> I need to thank a lot of people at this point. Kate--for betaing, she does such a wonderful job, thank you so much. Becky--who saved my ass back in March when I thought lost the whole fic due to laptop crash. Chris--cause as always, he takes my whining and complaining but relentlessly tells me to write. Cat--cause she's a ray of sunshine, her comments are golden and I really appreciate your support. 
> 
> Please beware that I will add more tags with the following chapters. Also, if you feel like I haven't tagged anything properly, please let me know.

“No, Derek.” Stiles screws his eyes shut and presses the balls of his hands against the closed lids. It feels like a never-ending discussion, and he is so sick and tired of it. He’s surprised by himself and how he hasn’t really snapped yet, how calm he can stay, although he screams, and screams, and screams with frustration on the inside. “How many times do we have to have this discussion, really?”

When he opens his eyes again, Derek is looking at him with an annoyed line to his mouth. “It’s risky,” Derek says stoically but breaks eye contact and stares out the windshield.

Stiles snorts. “Seriously? It’s a fucking gas station, and I’ll just go to pay. Please tell me again why this is risky?”

Derek’s mouth is a thin line. He doesn’t answer.

“Exactly. If it’s risky for me then it’s like running blatantly into a knife when you go. What if the cameras catch your eyes, huh? What if the cashier dude recognizes you?” Stiles goes on, trying desperately to make his point, once again. He knows he’s right, and he’s well aware that Derek knows too. But the stupid werewolf is trying to be the hero again.

“I can put on sunglasses,” Derek suggests which makes Stiles groan in exasperation.

“It’s in the middle of the night, dumbass,” he says, almost yelling. “Apart from the fact that it makes you look like a douche, it does seem strange to run around in sunglasses when it’s pitch black outside. Seriously, what the hell, Derek? Give me the money.”

Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek to hand him the cash, he just grabs it out of his hands and gets out of the car.

One of the two other cars at the station is already leaving and the driver from the second brushes by Stiles when he enters the shop. Stiles is used to this, so he’s not getting anxiety attacks anymore when he has to pay the gas. It’s his task, ever since the beginning and he’s lost count on how often he’s had to argue about this with Derek.

The guy behind the counter chews gum and seems like he’s bored out of his mind. He doesn’t even notice Stiles until they’re facing each other. Stiles puts the money on the counter, waiting for the guy to do his job.

It’s when the guy hands him the change, that shit hits the fan. He squints at Stiles.

“Aren’t you that Stibinski guy?” cashier dude asks. Stiles feels his heart rate pick up at that, swears inwardly, because he’s sure Derek’s heard.

“Who?” He tries for nonchalance. The guy narrows his eyes at him, and Stiles really, really needs to get the hell out of here. He can’t turn and run, it would make him look guilty. The only option is to try and throw the guy off, and at the same time hoping that Derek doesn’t come barrelling in.

“That guy who’s on the run with the homicidal werewolf,” cashier dude clarifies. Homicidal werewolf, huh. Wow, guy’s got some fancy words. Stiles wants to throw something at him. He’s so tired of this bullshit.

“You mean Stilinski,” Stiles answers calmly. His hands are sweating, his heart beats so loud he can hear his blood rushing in his ears, and it takes him so much control not to turn and run. “It’s funny actually. You’re not the first one to ask that. Obviously, we look strangely alike.”

The guy doesn’t seem convinced. Stiles waves before he turns to leave the store. He casts a look to the counter as he walks out and catches how the cashier dude grabs for his phone. _Fuck_.

Outside, he immediately locks eyes with Derek, who’s staring at him through the shotgun window. Stiles tries to walk over casually but everything in his head screams, _Run!_ He throws open the passenger door and jumps inside, frantically shouting, “Go! Go! _Go!_ ”

Stiles feels safer and calmer the instant he’s in the car, leaning back against the seat, drawing in deep breaths and smelling the familiar scent of the car, Derek and himself.

“What happened?” Derek inquires, casting quick glances in his direction. Clearly, he is unsettled, and there is a deep frown on his face.

“What do you think?” Stiles snaps back. He doesn’t mean to but he’s still shaken, and curses himself and that stupid cashier dude. “We need to lose the license plates.”

“We can’t drop them and go without them,” Derek says. “That would draw too much attention.”

“As if the car itself doesn’t draw attention,”  Stiles mutters, tries to swallow down the anger that’s building up in him again. The Camaro is fast and sleek and flashy, and Derek wouldn’t ditch it. They have argued about that too. Stiles gave up fighting Derek for it.

“Stiles.”

“What,” Stiles answers flatly. “The plates are on tape, we need to get rid of them if we don’t want to find ourselves chased any more than we already are.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Derek promises. He reaches out and gently takes Stiles’ hand, entwining their fingers, and rubs soothing circles into his skin. Stiles squeezes lightly, assuring, apologetic. He turns to stare out of the window, watches shadowy outlines flying past him. It’s monotonous, lulling him slowly but steadily into sleep.

***

“What do you mean they’ve sent for a supervisor?” Stiles inquires incredulously. He sits back on the bed, crossing his legs.

It’s been days since Scott has been holed up in one of the rooms in a special wing of the hospital, namely where freshly bitten werewolves go when they get caught. It’s a nice facility, actually, and some members of the staff are werewolves too. The room is large with wide windows, but every windowsill and every threshold that leads out of the building is laced with mountain ash. It makes it impossible for Scott to leave the facility. When Stiles asked a nurse how werewolf staff enters and exits, she bestowed him with a smile that said, Dream on.

“I don’t know, man. They said I need to learn control before I can leave here, so they’ve sent for someone who’ll teach me,” Scott answers. He looks like a sad, lost puppy.

“Why can’t the staff do that? I mean there are some werewolves among them,” Stiles says, and raises his eyebrows. It doesn’t make sense to him. “No need to send for someone.”

“Dude, I have no idea,” Scott replies, shrugging helplessly. Stiles can tell that he’s not okay, although he still can’t deny that he finds it amazing that his best friend is now a freaking werewolf. However, he feels somewhat guilty being so gleeful about it. It’s so damn obvious that Scott is miserable, stuck in here. He’s never wanted this.

It happened about a week ago when Scott left the animal clinic after his shift to drive home, and it happened so fast, Scott said. Later, the authorities said it has been inevitable, that Scott couldn’t have saved himself, and that he should be happy to be alive even if he’s a shifter now. It was a lone Alpha, they said, probably looking for a pack, and when he couldn’t find one he tried building one.

They found the Alpha, and they executed him. It is a crime to bite people without consent, and even with consent there are a lot of rules that have to be followed to make it legal.

Newly bitten werewolves are under supervision until they learn how to control their senses and especially the shift in their everyday life, as well as on full moons.

Scott is the only case in the facility as there aren’t many werewolves in Beacon Hills and its general area, and even fewer cases of non-consensually bitten ones. He has his large room to himself, and he has even a laptop and a phone, both of which he can use freely. Visitors are allowed one at a time, and only with supervision.

“Well. Try to see the bright side of it: you’ll be out of here in no time. I mean, they’ve probably sent for an expert, so you just learn how to reign yourself in, and you’re good to go,” Stiles says cheerily. Scott shoots him a small smile. Stiles knows it’s easier said than done but he tries to stay enthusiastic for his best friend’s sake.

That’s when Eli comes in. “Time’s up, guys,” he says as Stiles sighs, and Scott pouts mournfully. He hates being alone.

“Aw, come on, Eli,” Stiles pleads, although he knows there’s no way he can stay.

“It’s not up for discussion, Stiles,” Eli says firmly but a little apologetically and playfully flashes his blue eyes at Stiles. “I’m sure you can drop by tomorrow again.”

Sighing, Stiles gets up. Scott makes a miserable whining noise in his throat when he hugs him, and clutches at Stiles’ shoulders. He wishes he could make it easier but what can he do?

“I’ll be back tomorrow, buddy,” Stiles promises and then adds, “We’ll talk on Skype tonight, alright?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. Stiles waves before he leaves the room.

He walks down the corridor, and past the check-in desk. A tall, dark guy is standing with his back to him, talking to the nurse. Stiles is already in the elevator when he hears the guy say, “I’m here for Scott.”

The guy turns and throws a look over his shoulder, and locks eyes with Stiles for one second before the elevator doors slide shut. Stiles is pretty sure he has seen him before. 

***

The sky is faintly greyish-blue at the horizon when Stiles wakes up, and Derek has the window on his side rolled down a little, letting the cool, fresh air streaming through the cockpit. He has also covered Stiles with his leather jacket. Stiles buries his nose in the collar, inhaling deeply, letting Derek’s scent wash through him. He squints at the time display on the dashboard, and groans, because it’s just four in the morning.

It’s eerily silent. Derek doesn’t listen to the radio; he only does it for Stiles’ sake when he’s awake. As soon as Stiles falls asleep, he turns it off and listens to the silence, listens to whatever goes through his head, and Stiles thinks that Derek is haunted by all of the (not-so) recent events, by his anger and guilt and desperation.

“Morning,” Stiles slurs as he rubs at his sleepy eyes. Derek shoots him a quick look, with a smile on his lips that’s so tiny it’s easy to miss.

“You should go back to sleep,” he says, and rolls the window back up. “It’s early.”

“Do you want me to take over?” Stiles asks instead, trying to suppress a yawn and failing. “You haven’t slept in two days.”

“I’m good,” Derek replies with a stubborn edge to his voice, eyes stoically on the road. Stiles can see how he grips the steering wheel a slightly bit tighter as if he’s afraid Stiles will rip it out of his hands. It’s ridiculous, really. Stiles has an endless list of things that annoy the shit out of him at times.

“You know, even the big, grouchy werewolf needs to sleep, because contrary to the popular belief of one Derek Hale werewolves don’t run on air and love,” Stiles argues, voice still drowsy but dripping with sarcasm nonetheless. “You can try, of course, but don’t make a bitch face at me when you collapse, and I introduce you to I Told You So.”

Derek makes a bitch face _now_ , setting his jaw and scowling at the windshield.

“I said I’m fine,” he tries again. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“That’s your default answer, and I know you’ve said this to yourself so often you actually believe it,” Stiles grouches. “You should know by now that you’re not alone in this. I’m just trying to help. Let me remind you that when you wrap the car around a tree, I’m not the one who can simply walk away.”

There’s silence.

“But that’s not even the point,” Stiles adds, because it wasn’t his intention to talk some more guilt into Derek. “Why won’t you let me help you? Do you think I’m going to ditch the car? You’re two hundred pounds of pure muscle; how do you think I’m going to get you out of the car without you noticing? Or move you, in the first place.”

Derek actually smirks at that. Asshole. Stiles glares at Derek’s profile hoping to intimidate him into letting Stiles drive for a change. It’s not a surprise that it doesn’t work. Derek is as immune to Stiles’ glare as Stiles is to Derek’s, so there’s no point in trying. He huffs out his annoyance, and yawns.

“Go back to sleep, Stiles,” Derek orders, using his authority voice. Like it would work. Stiles shoots him a dirty look.

It’s definitely not the authority voice that makes him go back to sleep. He can’t help it, his eyes are falling shut again, drowsiness still clinging to him. Stiles is out cold before he can even curse Derek and his infuriating stubbornness.

The next time he comes to it’s because Derek is gently shaking his shoulder, quietly saying, “Stiles, wake up.”

Stiles blinks blearily at him. He feels stiff all over, and it’s hot under Derek’s jacket. “What time is it?” he slurs drowsily, rubbing at his eyes. His mouth feels dry, and he swallows to lose some of the stale taste.

“Quarter past eight,” Derek answers, holding out a cup of coffee. Stiles scrunches up his nose.

“Ew,” he makes. “Not until I brush my teeth.”

Stiles clicks his tongue and gets out of the car. Derek looks unfairly handsome in the golden morning light, and nothing like he’s gone two days without sleep and a minimum of comfort. He’s leaning against the car, holding two cups of coffee, and takes a sip from his own. Stiles leans back into the Camaro, braces his knees on the passenger seat and bends over to get his toothbrush out of his bag. He catches Derek staring at him when he turns back around, and Derek’s eyes are hooded and dark and hungry; Stiles steps away quickly before they end up making out in—

He looks around. They’re in the parking lot of some highway restaurant, and they’re—unsurprisingly—not the only ones.

Stiles makes his way to the restroom to do his morning routine. He splashes cold water onto his face, and looks into the mirror. The thought of how familiar it feels to wake up in a new place every day, to brush his teeth in the restroom of a motel or a restaurant or even in the middle of nowhere hits him, so hard and unexpected, that Stiles grips the edges of the sink and draws in a deep breath. His hair is longer now, unruly; he hasn’t cut it since he left with Derek—it’s too risky to go to a hairdresser—and they need far more important things than a trimmer. Stiles figured Derek likes it but he also figured that Derek likes him for who he is, and not for how he looks like or how he wears his hair. 

When he goes back to the car, he notices the different license plate. He doesn’t know when or where Derek changed them, or where he got them but he thinks it’s better not to know, not to ask. It doesn’t matter, in the end.

“I want you to sleep today,” Stiles says when Derek holds out the cup again. He graciously takes it. Derek looks at him, and Stiles will stand his ground, he won’t let Derek talk his way out of this again. He’s sure Derek will argue but instead he pulls Stiles close, noses at his neck and playfully catches Stiles’ earlobe between his teeth. Stiles shudders, and Derek seems to like it, because there is a pleased, low rumbling in his chest that reverberates through Stiles’ body.

“That can be arranged,” Derek hums into his ear. Stiles has to bite back a moan. He slips out of Derek’s arms.

“No,” he says sternly, and then again, “No. You will sleep. Rest. And nothing else but that.”

Derek pins him with a look that somehow manages to convey both, _Make me_ , and, _I’d like to see you try resisting me_. It’s unfortunate, really, that Derek knows all too well how easy Stiles is for him, but Stiles is determined not to give in this time.

Stiles just raises his eyebrows, and Derek snorts. They drink their coffee in silence.

***

“Derek Hale?” Stiles asks, and frowns at the TV screen he’s currently sitting in front of. The controller almost slips through his fingers when realization hits him. “Derek Hale!”

“Huh?” Scott shoots him a look from the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t seem to remember.

“He used to live in Beacon Hills too,” Stiles provides helpfully, pushing Scott’s player out of the way for his own benefit. “His family died in a fire years ago. He and his sister were the only survivors, and after that they moved away. I can’t believe he came back here because of you. Why did they send for him?”

“Uh, they said that new werewolves are always trained by Alphas, and apparently Derek is an Alpha, so,” Scott answers. “Accordingly, it also helps accommodating to pack rules. Most werewolves accept their supervisor as their Alpha after finishing the training. You know, so they don’t end up as Omegas. 

“Wait. Wait—what? You have to choose an Alpha?” Stiles asks incredulously, raising his eyebrows. Scott shrugs.

“Well, I do if I don’t want to be monitored all the time. If I don’t choose an Alpha, or become one myself, I’ll be an Omega, and Derek said that I’m better off finding a pack than being an Omega,” Scott explains. “But I can accept the local Alpha as my pack leader too.”

“Whoa, slow down there,” Stiles interrupts, filing away all the information Scott has just given him. “How do you become an Alpha yourself?”

“Derek hasn’t told me but he said it’s unlikely I’ll become one so early after being bitten,” Scott replies, never once taking his eyes off the screen. He’s surprisingly focused for someone who is probably tuned in on everything that’s happening around the facility.

Stiles huffs. “Who’s the local Alpha? What difference does it make if you accept Derek or the local?”

Scott snorts when Stiles wins the game. “Dr. Mason is Alpha of all the werewolves in Beacon Hills. He’s working at the hospital, in surgery I think. That’s why he can’t train me. No time, and all,” he says, rubbing a hand over his hair. He looks a little frustrated when Stiles glances at him. Probably because Stiles has just kicked his ass. “I can stay here when I decide for Dr. Mason to be my Alpha,” Scott goes on. “If I choose Derek, I’ll have to go where he goes.”

Stiles puts his controller down and looks at his best friend. “Well, then the choice is clear, duh,” he says. “I mean why should you follow some guy you don’t know to god knows where just because he trained you?”

Scott smiles at him. “Would you want me to stay?”

Stiles flicks him around the head. It’s probably a telling thing that he dares to hit a werewolf. “ _Dude_. Are you seriously asking me that?” 

Grinning widely, Scott rubs his head.

“Anyway,” Stiles says as they decide switch to Mario Kart, with Scott choosing Mario and Stiles Yoshi. “What’s Derek like?”

Scott raises his eyebrows, intently looking and clicking through the karts, and answers, “Hard to tell, man. He introduced himself yesterday, said something like, ‘The bite is a gift’,” Scott huffs and makes a face that clearly speaks of disagreement, “He said he’d help me, though, and once I figured everything out it will become easier, so.”

“When do you start with the training?”

“Later today.”

They stop talking after that and concentrate on the game. Stiles is delighted to find that Scott’s new werewolf powers have no effect on his gaming. Scott gets run over, hit, pushed out of the way and off some cliffs repeatedly. He curses, rattles his controller. Wario sneers and knocks him over with a red shell.

Scott is breathing hard, and the controller actually cracks. Stiles’ heart starts pounding, icy feeling crawling up his spine. He barely gets a glimpse of claws before Scott is on him. Everything is a blur of colours. 

Stiles tries to get up and stumbles over his own feet in an attempt to get away as Scott’s gold-flashing eyes fix him, lips curled back, revealing his long fangs. His face is twisted into an ugly, aggressive mask, and he looks rabid—inhuman. The growl is loud and shakes Stiles to the core. He curses himself, he should have known better. But it was just Mario Kart, and Scott has never got riled up over Mario Kart.

And then Scott pounces him.

Stiles feels the iron grip on his bicep before he’s hurled back, and someone jumps Scott, and throws him into the opposite wall. There’s the eerie sound of bones cracking, and Scott makes a loud whining noise. Stiles releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding before he peers around the dark frame of the person who came to save him.

Scott is a whimpering pile on the floor, clinging at his arm, and Stiles is sure he’s broken it when he hit the wall. His face is back to normal, though, and he looks pained and confused and scared. Stiles’ heart is still hammering against his chest when he releases a shaky, relieved breath. That’s when Eli and some of the other werewolves of the facility come running into the room.

“Scott?” he asks tentatively. Scott groans in response. Eli and the others get him up to his feet.

“Get him out of here,” hero guy says curtly, and the nurses hurriedly drag Scott away.

Stiles is compiling a sentence that contains both, a complaint and a thank you in his head when hero guy whips around and he finds himself facing a downright terrifying glare. If only he wasn’t as distracted by the eyes and those extremely expressive eyebrows. Stiles takes in the cheekbones and the jawline, and, man, that stubble is just so not fair. He forgets everything he wanted to say.

“ _What the hell were you thinking_ ,” Derek Hale—who turns out to be hero guy, and, contrary to the stereotypical hero role, doesn’t seem thrilled about it—grinds out, and it’s not even a question. “He could have killed you—this could have been his death sentence too!”

“It was just a game,” Stiles says defensively. Seriously. “It’s not like this was the first time we played it, dude.”

“He’s a freshly bitten werewolf, you idiot,” Derek reminds him—and wow, if there was an award for fierce, angry eyebrows Derek would win it—and he says it like explains everything. Which it probably does when Stiles gives it some thought. “Such things affect him differently now.”

“Oh my god, dude, look, being turned into a werewolf chew toy by my best friend isn’t exactly on the top of my to-do-list, alright?” Stiles says. “It’s not like it was my _intention_ to make him wolf out on me.”

Derek’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, scowling hard. His anger is pretty intimidating. Some tiny part in him frantically tells him to run but he stays where he is, and he’s kind of proud of himself that he doesn’t recoil.

He lets out a startled, totally not unmanly yelp when Derek grabs his arm again and drags him out of the room and down the corridor. His grasp is firm but not painful or bruising, his pace fast, and Derek doesn’t even seem to notice when Stiles tries to dig his heels in against the relentless pull. Stiles squirms and twists, and he should get points for effort, because at least Derek shoots him an irritated look.

Derek pushes him into the elevator, all but gently, and basically punches the ground level button. He braces his hands on both sides of the door and leans forward, blocking the way out, glaring intently at Stiles.

“You’re banned from visiting,” Derek informs him, and his eyebrows look menacing.

Stiles squawks. “What? No! You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.” Derek bares his teeth, and flashes his eyes—red—before he steps back so the elevator doors can slide shut.

Stiles surges forward—stupid werewolf will see what he gets from trying to keep Stiles away from his best friend—but Derek only so much as nudges him, and Stiles is nothing but flying back into the opposite wall of the elevator.

The doors close, and Stiles angrily yells, “I’m not afraid of you, jackass!” 

***

Stiles itches all over when they sit in the restaurant and order breakfast; it’s been a while since someone recognized him, and it sets him on edge again. Derek eats two portions himself, and the waitress they’re served by is making sexy eyes at him every time she comes to refill the coffee. It’s undeniably a good thing that Derek is pretty, apparently it distracts much more than it draws attention to the fact that he’s a wanted werewolf. That doesn’t mean Stiles is not annoyed by all of the women (and men) who constantly try to (not-so-subtly) hit on him.

Despite all of Stiles’ efforts and curses and arguments, Derek wouldn’t let him drive, so when they leave the parking lot, Stiles is silently fuming again. He hates how calm and seemingly untouched and unaffected Derek is by all of this.

Derek tunes into a random radio station while Stiles climbs into the backseat. It’s a hardship, damn this car, but he manages eventually. Derek glares but Stiles ignores him. He knows it drives Derek up the wall when he clambers around the car without a seatbelt on. On a normal day, Stiles would find his worry endearing. Today, Stiles feels passive-aggressive, so he pisses Derek off on purpose. It’s not his best trait, he can’t help it.

He clears some space to sit and starts sorting through the chaos of clothes piled up there. Derek keeps shooting glowering looks through the review-mirror.

“Put a seatbelt on,” Derek orders, and Stiles ducks his head to hide a grin.

“Yep,” he chirps bending down to grab Derek’s bag from behind the driver’s seat. It’s stuffed with dirty laundry and Stiles sighs starting sorting through the clothes that are piled around him. He crams his worn stuff in with Derek’s.

Derek’s voice sounds strained, “Stiles.”

“Gimme a second,” Stiles answers distractedly, digging through an incredible amount of socks—seriously, where are all the socks coming from?

“ _Now_ ,” Derek grouses, and makes Furious Eyebrows at him.

“Hey, do you know where those socks come from?” Stiles asks incredulously, shaking a pair in his hand. “I don’t even know which of those are yours and which mine.”

“Stiles,” Derek says again, this time plaintively teeth, and Stiles can tell he’s deeply distressed. “Put the fucking seatbelt on. Now.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and says, “I’m fine back here. No need to worry.”

Derek flashes his Alpha eyes at him, and Stiles knows it deliberate, only it has no effect whatsoever. “What if I turn the car around? What if there’s an accident?”

“You? Turning the car around? Yeah!” 

“You can’t just walk away.”

“Oh, now you’re worried about it?” Stiles shoots back, feeling anger rising up in him again. “Why do you think you could cause an accident? And don’t say it’s because you haven’t slept in days.”

Derek gets the sarcasm, and his fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel before his shoulders sag in the next moment. He inhales deeply before quickly glancing at Stiles through the mirror.

They used to yell and argue with each other, screaming themselves breathless in the process, and then spent hours sitting wordlessly next to each other in the car, with Derek clenching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and Stiles staring stubbornly out of the window. Derek stopped yelling a long time ago. They still argue but it’s only half-assed on Derek’s part. He either gives in to Stiles’ constant nagging—and mostly that is what Stiles has settled on: nagging—or vehemently ignores him in favour of doing what he wants (or thinks it’s right) to do.

Stiles misses the yelling sometimes.

“Please,” Derek eventually pleads in a quiet voice.

And just like that Stiles’ anger dissipates. He slumps against the seat and buckles up, seeing the Approving Eyebrows in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles continues sorting through their clothes, throwing the dirty stuff in Derek’s bag, and neatly folding everything else, stuffing it away in another one. Once he’s done with their clothes, Stiles continues picking up the books. He didn’t take his favourite— _Timm Thaler_ —when he threw stuff into his bag, though. Stiles knew from the start that this would probably be a journey without end, without turning around and going back but he hoped and left his favourite book; the one his mother has read so often to him back when he was a child, and he read it countless times after she passed away. He regrets now that he didn’t bring it with him.

He collects the few books they have—most of them they bought along the way—and out them away. They’ve read them so often that the books have lost their appeal and novelty. 

Stiles sighs when he sees the photo of Derek and Laura on the floor behind the driver’s seat. They had neither time nor space to bring along many personal things and Stiles knows that Derek misses his tiny treasures that remind him of his family or happy moments as much as Stiles does. At times, it’s depressing that they have only their memories and nothing else to hold on to, to show and to share. 

He picks up the photograph and carefully tucks it away between the pages of a diary he used to write, back when it all was as exciting as it was terrifying. Stiles thinks it was stupid to be excited about a never-ending road trip, about running away and leaving everything behind for good.

The rest is loose stuff like towels and little samples of shampoo or toothpaste, the chargers to their cheap prepaid phones, maps and empty water bottles.

“We need to find a Laundromat,” Stiles says when he scrambles back to the passenger seat. “Sometimes I think you would end up buying new clothes every time you ran out of your old ones if it wasn’t for me.”

“No, I would just drive around naked,” Derek deadpans and shrugs a little. 

Stiles manages to accidentally smack himself with the plug of the seatbelt. “Oh my god—no. You’d only blind everyone.”

“With my shiny everything?” 

Stiles snorts. “No, you’d dagger them with your shiny death glare then.”

“Ease up on the compliments; I can only take so many.”

There’s a playful smile on Derek’s lips, his default frown is completely gone, and Stiles feels happy all over for a moment. Considering their situation, they don’t have much to be happy about. Stiles can’t help but to draw joy from the tiniest things, it’s what keeps him together, and Derek smiling has always been a thing that’s brought him contentment.

***

“It’s been a _month_!” Stiles exclaims while flailing his arms around. “ _A month_!”

His father watches him over the rim of the glasses he’s put on to read through his paperwork. He looks unimpressed.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen Scott,” he points out, taking off his glasses to clean them.

“Skype doesn’t count,” Stiles says, affronted. Scott is his best friend and he’s going through a rough phase. He needs Stiles, just as Stiles needs him—because, _duh_. Skype totally doesn’t count and Stiles bristles at the thought that he even has to _elaborate_. His dad really should know better. Skyping and actually seeing each other are two totally different things. Again, _duh_. 

It’s not like he hasn’t tried to sneak into the facility to see Scott but apparently one Derek Hale has enough authority over the staff to keep Stiles from visiting and supporting his best friend. Stiles hasn’t crossed paths with Derek since their first encounter.

Scott doesn’t seem very happy, either. He says the training is somewhat slow-going, and Derek pushes, and pushes, and pushes. Stiles seethes with rage every time Scott talks about it, because Derek doesn’t seem to help at all. After a month of training, his best friend still can’t control his shift, and isn’t even somewhere near it—Scott’s words. Which isn’t actually unusual—also Scott’s words.

Stiles has googled the shit out of it. He had enough time on his hands. Grudgingly, he has to admit that what Scott’s told him is true: it’s not at all unusual that it takes time and patience and a lot of training to get the shifting under control. It’s different for everyone. But there’s one thing Stiles stumbles across on basically every site and every book and every article: in order to control the shift a werewolf has to find an anchor. The anchor could be anything, and it’s also an individual thing.

Scott confirms the anchor thing the next time Stiles talks to him.

Scott’s mom says Scott is better at staying calm now and he can get down from being slightly riled up but also that he still needs another stimulator to transform back to normal once he wolfs out. Namely pain.

So when Stiles rides up the elevator to see Scott the next day, he’s determined to get past the reception. To his surprise, no one sits at the desk, and the floors are empty. Everything is quiet, almost eerily so. It’s not unusual, though, as Scott is the only werewolf ‘in care’ right now, and there isn’t so much staff around. Stiles wanders to Scott’s room to find it empty too. He’s probably training with Derek right now, so Stiles walks one of the long corridors, straining his ears to make out any noises to get an idea where to go to.

He’s rounding a corner when he hears a loud rumbling noise and then a door is flying open, sent crashing again the opposite wall. Stiles doesn’t even have time to realize what’s happening when the feral growl echoes through the corridor and someone tackles him down, hard, pinning him painfully against the cold ground. Struggling only results in more growling that reverberates through Stiles’ whole body, making him tremble, his heart rabbiting in his chest.

Scott is crouching threateningly over him, face fully transformed and eyes glowing yellow—and there’s drool, lots and lots of drool. Stiles is sure—so, so sure—he shouldn’t feel like laughing right now. His best friend is wolfed out, hovering over him with probably every intention of killing him and Stiles feels adrenaline rushing through his veins, his heartbeat is skyrocketing like it’s trying to break through his ribs. And still, there’s laughter bubbling up inside of him, at the sight of a dangerous out-of-control werewolf _who drools all over him_.

Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s laughing and can’t reign himself in, and it’s so surreal, so idiotic he can’t even begin to explain, yet he simply isn’t able to stop.

“Scott,” Stiles wheezes out, looking up, and Scott seems confused as the yellow seeps out of his eyes, realization flickering across his face.

“Stiles?”

There’s no time for Stiles to answer, because Scott is thrown off of him and someone grabs his arm, dragging him back. A girl in four-inch-heels steps in front of him, her blonde curls bouncing as she walks towards Scott. The clacking sounds of her heels echo loud in Stiles’ ears. She studies her nails with a bored expression on her face, and she doesn’t look at all like she’s scared of Scott. Stiles figures she must be werewolf too, then. He’s still giggling like a total moron.

“Take care of him,” Derek says from behind him, and then two guys appear in Stiles’ field of vision, following the blonde. Both of them throw Stiles a quick look. The lankier one—tall and blonde—looks a little incredulous but faintly amused while the other one—bulky and dark-skinned—clearly expresses that he thinks Stiles is an idiot, all with his face.

Scott doesn’t protest when the girl drags him up to his feet and hurls him away.

Stiles is yanked up. The iron grip of Derek’s hand around his arm shouldn’t feel so familiar, he thinks distantly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Derek snarls when he manhandles Stiles so he can look at him. Derek’s eyebrows even manage to convey, ‘Why are you here?’ and ‘Who let you in?’ in addition. Stiles tries to pry his arm out of Derek’s hold but it’s hopeless. He just rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to let you bully me into staying away for ever, jackass,” he scoffs. “He’s my best friend and I want to help him. You don’t seem to do a good job.”

Derek looks livid, but instead he yanks him around and walks back the way Stiles came. Derek’s frighteningly silent, and again Stiles can’t do anything against the relentless pull. It’s so fucking frustrating. Werewolves and their stupid strength. Stiles twists around helplessly, tries to dig his heels in, claws at Derek’s hand around his arm but it’s no use. Out of frustration, Stiles jabs a finger into Derek’s side.

Derek jumps so hard that Stiles loses his footing, stumbling forward and almost knocking into Derek. It takes a few seconds for him to process what just happened, and then Stiles is laughing again, so hard his has to brace a hand on Derek’s shoulder to keep himself from toppling over. Stiles can’t even stop to consider for a moment that it’s the worst idea ever to laugh into Derek’s face but—

Derek’s ticklish. The big, scary, stoic werewolf is ticklish. 

The thought alone makes more laughter ripple through Stiles’ frame. Derek shakes off Stiles’ hand from his shoulder watching Stiles holding his stomach while he collapses on the floor. His face is particularly sour, and yet there is a certain helplessness to him, like he has no idea how to react or what to do. Stiles assumes that this hasn’t happened before, and his best guess is that Derek does not appreciate that Stiles discovered this little weak spot.

Stiles is still sitting on the floor laughing when Derek grits out, “You need to leave.” He looks beyond pissed and glares menacingly.

“You wanna try that again?” Stiles asks breathlessly before he draws in a deep breath in an attempt to (a) get some air to breathe and (b) calm himself down. “It’s kinda hard to take you seriously now, dude, you know, when I know you jump sky high when I poke your side.”

Derek looks like he’s seconds away from wringing Stiles’ neck. Again.

“Leave. Now,” Derek tries once more. His glare is impressive, Stiles has to admit but he doesn’t have time to be intimidated, he’s too busy admiring Derek’s strong jawline when he grits his teeth. Man, that jaw in combination with that stubble should be illegal.

“Or what?” Stiles prompts, snapping himself out of his daze.

“Or I’ll rip your throat out,” Derek threatens. There. Stiles wasn’t far off with his assumption.

“Huh,” he says. “That was your second try. You want to go for another one? You know, generous as I am, I grant you three tries.”

Derek hauls him up faster than Stiles can process, and pushes him up against the nearest wall. He’s not gentle but it doesn’t hurt either. Stiles finds his face inches from Derek’s, feeling his breath against his face. For a helpless second, Stiles ogles Derek’s eyes.  His brain oh-so-helpfully provides _Central_ _Heterochromia_. He’s off guard, not used to a stranger all up in his space. Stiles wonders for a split second what it would feel like to have Derek’s mouth on his throat, but doesn’t delve into it.

“Is this some sort of sick game to you?” Derek sneers, his hands fisted tightly into Stiles’ plaid, pinning him effectively against the wall. “Do you have a death wish?”

Derek doesn’t let him answer. Instead, he continues, “I don’t care. I’m not going to be responsible for your well-being if you keep coming back here and putting yourself out to the danger. And I’m not going to let Scott take the fall for your stupidity. Stay away until he is able to control himself. Leave now or—”

“Or what, huh?” Stiles interrupts, angry now. “Have you thought about that maybe he needs someone familiar around? Obviously, he still needs to find an anchor, and I’m guessing wildly here but you’re not exactly helping, as it seems. He’s my best friend. He means more to me than he probably means to you.” 

Derek briefly seems taken aback. He’s back to glowering in no time, though. “I have no control over him finding an anchor,” he grits out, a frustrated note to his voice.

“That’s why I’m here,” Stiles offers. “I know him better than you do. I don’t want to be a chew toy; I’m not saying I’m going to volunteer to be eaten alive. But if I can help , I’m going to do it, even if it means being around him when he flips. He recognized me earlier. When I said his name. He recognized me.”

Derek isn’t convinced yet. Stiles can tell by the way his mouth is still forming a thin line. His eyebrows are furrowed. “No.”

Stiles clenches his jaw. “You want to play dirty? Fine. I’m going to tell everyone that you are ticklish, and if anyone wants to take you out, they only have to go for your sides.”

Derek narrows his eyes dangerously. “You realize you’re acting like a child whose candy has been stolen, right?”

“I bet your tag-alongs don’t know about your little weak spot,” Stiles answers, unimpressed. It’s a shot in the dark, he doesn’t really know if Derek’s going to take the bait. For all he knows Derek couldn’t care less.

“Stiles,” Derek says warningly, scowl hard on his face. Stiles is stricken by the way his name sounds when Derek says it, the sound skittering down his spine making goose bumps spread along the way. He inhales deeply. It’s when he notices that Derek’s hands, where they’re gripping his shirt, rise and fall with his breathing.

“Try me,” Stiles dares and watches when Derek’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. He bares his—human—teeth, in what Stiles thinks is meant to be a threatening manner but seems furious and faintly desperate.

“Fine,” he snarls pointedly, yet he doesn’t move away from Stiles. “If you say so much as only one word or make any indications…”

“Aaaand that was the third!” Stiles says enthusiastically, high fiving himself mentally. Stiles can’t help but grin. He has leverage now, and he knows how to use it, never mind that Derek’s an alpha werewolf. He may appear furious on the outside, but Stiles is sure that underneath he is genuinely scared Stiles might spill his secret. Not that he was seriously up to it. But Derek doesn’t have to know that.

Derek sneers, annoyed, letting go of Stiles and stepping away. “You do as I say. You don’t interfere during the physical training. You don’t try your ideas out on Scott. If you don’t stick to the rules, I’m going to chain you up myself in one of the cells for full moons until you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Kinky,” Stiles says cheekily, and Derek’s face grows even sourer. He turns and stalks back the way they came. Stiles hurriedly follows.

It isn’t until later that day that Stiles realizes Derek knew his name despite the lack of an official introduction.

***

The sun is already halfway set when they get into a town Stiles has never heard of—yet again. It’s dark by the time they find a Laundromat. Luckily, no one is inside, and the streets are almost free of people too.

Stiles rummages in one of the bags until he finds their detergent, throws it in with all of their dirty laundry and gets out of the car. Derek is already lingering at the entrance to the Laundromat, alert, skimming the streets with his eyes. And Stiles can see the tense arc of his shoulders and the firm set of his jaw. They can rarely really relax, and even though Stiles isn’t always one hundred per cent on edge, the thrumming feeling of anxiety and vigilance is permanently there, hiding just beneath the surface.

He reaches for Derek’s hand when he catches up with him, and squeezes lightly. Stiles can only do so much to take something of Derek’s edginess away but Derek relaxes at the touch, and there’s the ghost of a smile around the corners of his mouth.

Stiles has long stopped sorting clothes by colour, he just throws in the entire pile. It doesn’t matter anyway.

After starting the wash cycle he turns around to Derek and says, “Go find a motel we can stay in tonight.”

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Derek answers, even before Stiles finishes his sentence. Stiles can’t decide whether it’s cute or down right annoying.

“I’m a big boy, I can watch out for myself,” Stiles assures him, rolling his eyes. “You can come back once you’ve checked in.”

Derek shakes his head. “No.”

Stiles draws in a deep breath, reading for yet another discussion, but he sighs instead and lets it go. He doesn’t want to fight with Derek again. And anyway,  he feels safer when Derek is around. Stiles hates how jumpy he gets when Derek isn’t in his direct sight. Derek’s just the same, though.

There was one time when stayed in a motel, and Stiles went out in the morning to get breakfast while Derek was still asleep. By the time he came back, Derek almost knocked Stiles out accidentally when he opened the door to the room the moment Stiles wanted to come in. After that Derek held him close, pressed him against the door and buried his in the crook of Stiles’ neck. Stiles still remembers vividly the rapid beating of Derek’s heart against his chest, and how Derek wouldn’t let him go for a while, murmuring, “Don’t do that again,” over and over in a slightly shaky voice, tinged with desperation and relief. Stiles doesn’t want a repeat of that scene.

So Stiles leans against one of the huge washing machines, considering what he could do while they wait for the clothes to be done. He’s not up for reading the books that are lying on the backseat of the car, and Derek probably doesn’t want to play guessing games with him. Stiles contemplates buying a set of cards so he can teach Derek poker. Surprisingly, Derek can’t play poker for shit; he’s an ace in darts and billiards, however. It’s how they make cash, actually, although Derek has a shitload of it stashed somewhere. How Derek managed to draw so much money so shortly before they had to leave is still a mystery to Stiles but he doesn’t ask. Mostly, Stiles plays poker for fun and not for the money but it also helps him being somewhat independent from Derek; that way Stiles doesn’t have to live off him.

Derek steps in front of him, placing his hands on Stiles’ hips. Stiles feels the heat spreading from where the warmth of Derek’s fingers seeps into his skin, it shoots through his body and leaves him tingling. It isn’t fair, Stiles thinks, how easy he is sometimes, when Derek doesn’t have to do much more than touch him innocently, and Stiles feels like he’s been set ablaze. The dark expression in Derek’s eyes, however, says that this touch isn’t innocent at all, and he knows exactly how Stiles will react.

Derek’s lips are on his before he can even think about it, and Stiles throws his arms around Derek’s neck, pulling him closer and opening his mouth. It’s an invitation Derek takes without hesitation, brushing his tongue against Stiles’. He can’t deny that kissing Derek is still as exciting as it was when he first kissed him, still as breathtaking and hot. Stiles sighs when Derek’s hand slip under his shirt, fingertips ghosting over his skin and leaving burning trails; it makes Stiles’ head spin and his heart pound. He feels flushed all over, and suddenly the warm air around them is a cool sensation on his skin when Derek pushes his shirt further up.

Stiles lets his fingers wander along the waistband of Derek’s jeans all the way to the back. He slides his hands under Derek’s shirt, raking blunt nails slightly over his back, feeling the muscles shift when Derek moves, and Stiles moans helplessly when Derek releases his mouth and latches onto the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. Derek knows how to push his buttons, and Stiles thinks it’s unfair. Derek’s caresses and teasing bites feel so achingly sweet and amazing; his touches consume Stiles and take his breath away, they warm him to the very core, and Stiles feels loved and safe. 

Derek gently tugs on his hair, and Stiles follows the motion, tipping his head back. Derek groans, dark and low, satisfied yetpredatory, and it shoots straight to Stiles’ dick. He whimpers at the feathery brush of Derek’s lips to his neck. It’s soul-destroying pleasure and sweet, sweet anguish at the same time, fuelling his arousal, his need for being so intimately close to Derek.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps breathlessly. Seriously, it’s damn hard to stay lucid while Derek is taunting him like that, letting his mouth ghost over his collarbone and still bared throat, keeping a hand in Stiles’ hair and his head firmly tipped back. “We shouldn’t—”

Derek latches onto the hollow of his throat, biting and sucking and licking, and Stiles almost chokes on his words. The humming noise Derek makes is proof enough that he enjoys this way too much. Stiles is onboard but there’s still a small voice in his head  telling him it’s probably not the best idea to make out in a public place.

He tries again, “We shouldnnnnn— _ha_.”

Stiles moans helplessly when Derek licks a long line from the base of his throat up to the tip of his chin, bucking up and pressing his hips closer to Derek’s. Derek continues biting tauntingly along his jawline.

“You were saying?” Derek prompts, and Stiles can hear the fucking smugness in his voice, the self-satisfied grin on his lips. That bastard. Stiles is about to reply with something snarky but it gets stuck in his throat as Derek slips his thigh between Stiles’ knees, deliberately rubbing it against his crotch. Instead of a coherent answer, a series of little throaty moans and gasps and whines comes out of his mouth.

Stiles grinds down on Derek’s thigh and then up against his hips in retaliation. He can feel the outline of Derek’s hard cock against his leg, and, smirking, Stiles repeats his movement. Derek groans with every time Stiles shifts, and Stiles can’t help but preen a little. However, it doesn’t last long because every noise that escapes Derek’s lips sends hot sparks down Stiles’ spine, and more blood rushing into his already throbbing erection.

“I was saying, we probably shouldn’t get indecent in public,” Stiles manages out eventually. “I don’t want to be arrested with a raging boner and a hand down your pants.”

Derek pushes his thigh higher, watching with hungry eyes as Stiles squirms and gasps, and his voice sounds strained and hoarse when he says, “We’re already indecent. Might as well enjoy it.”

Grinning, he adds, “Well, and there’s an image,” and when Stiles opens his mouth to argue again, Derek grabs his’ legs and guides them around his waist, pushing Stiles effectively up against the washing machine. The hard line of Derek’s dick pushes against his, and Stiles feels like all the air has been pressed out of his lungs.

“Fuck you,” Stiles chokes out breathlessly, tipping his head back again when Derek rolls his hips against him; mouth open for a voiceless moan.

“Can’t. I have to sleep. Doctor’s orders,” Derek mocks, and even though he’s as turned on as Stiles, there is still too much smugness and sarcasm in it. Stiles glowers at him but before he can counter Derek digs his hands into his ass and ruts against him, wringing another string of needy little sounds from Stiles’ mouth.

Derek is licking into his mouth and Stiles can nothing but meet him halfway, momentarily ignoring the nagging voice in his head that won’t shut up. Stiles grinds down every time Derek rocks up, having them fall into a steady but greedy rhythm that is accompanied by a constant stream of breathless moans and gasps. Stiles feels his cock twitch with every groan that comes out of Derek’s mouth, and everything is so hot and burning. A wave of ravishing sparks of pleasure rolls over him, building somewhere low and deep from within, and Stiles throws his head back, banging against the washing machine, and tightens his legs around Derek to make him stop moving. It only makes the friction sweeter, and Derek’s heat is all-encompassing.

“Stop, stop. Stop,” Stiles mewls out pathetically. “Derek—”

Derek makes a distressed sound. He doesn’t completely stop but he slows down considerably, lazily dragging their denim-wrapped cocks against each other and wrings another whimper from Stiles. Gently biting at Stiles’ collarbone, Derek brusquely demands, “Why?”

Stiles trembles when Derek’s tongue swiftly sweeps over the small spot between his collarbones.

“Because I’m not going to cream my pants like some overly horny and embarrassingly needy teenager,” Stiles says through gritted teeth. He hisses when Derek pushes even closer; the friction is getting too much, and Stiles is sure he won’t withstand this for much longer.

“Do it as an overly horny and embarrassingly needy adult then,” Derek suggests—again with the smirk. Fucker. Quite literally. Stiles bites back a groan when Derek rocks up once more, slowly, deliberately, and he makes sure to drag the movement out.

“You shouldn’t offer ideas when you’re humping me, you know, they tend to be undoubtedly pathetic,” Stiles shoots back, dragging his nails down Derek’s back. He’s rewarded with a bodily shudder and a dark, throaty grumble that reverberates through his own chest.

“Why are you even still talking?” Derek asks somewhat incredulously, picking up the pace again.

“Multita— _ah_ —sking,” Stiles sneers. “You should try it sometime.”

Derek grips his hips, hard, holding him in place before starting to rut forcefully against him. Stiles is sure he’ll combust any second now. Derek doesn’t hold back, breathing out greedy moans that are hot-wired to Stiles’ dick and ignite violently ravishing sparks in him. Stiles pushes his hands into Derek’s hair and tugs. There’s another dark sound coming from Derek’s throat but he complies and Stiles buries his face in his neck to bite at the burning skin.

“You feel so good,” Derek whispers hoarsely into his ear, and it’s what tips Stiles over the edge. Stiles’ grip on Derek’s hair tightens as he groans loudly into his shoulder, pressing himself flush against Derek. The orgasm crashes in blissful waves over him. Derek shudders when he comes and the sound he makes sends pleasant flares up Stiles’ spine.

Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s shoulder while Derek brushes his lips softly against Stiles’ temple. It’s sweet and tender and intimate, and Stiles relaxes into Derek, panting slightly, coming down from his high. Despite the unpleasant, sticky feeling in his pants, Stiles stays still and gingerly brushes with his fingers through Derek’s hair while Derek scatters feathery kisses along his neck and shoulder.

“I can’t believe we did this,” Stiles says eventually when his breathing has evened out. Derek chuckles lightly before he puts him down gently. “You’re even hornier than I am.”

Derek arches an eyebrow at him but doesn’t actually answer. Stiles likes to think it’s because Derek secretly agrees. Admittedly, Stiles enjoys the humping, and even though his days of creaming his pants have been long over before this, he’d still choose making out with Derek over not jizzing his boxers.

“Actually, I couldn’t wait to _tap that_ ,” Derek says, deadpan, in a mockery of what Stiles used to say about him when they first started making out.

“I can’t even blame you. Gotta admit I am a hot piece of ass,” Stiles replies and tilts his head to run a hand down the side of his neck. Derek’s eyes follow the motion.

“You’re a fluffy piece of flailing limbs.”

“Aw, dude, you just said ‘fluffy’.”

“I take it all back. You’re a huge pain in the ass.”

Stiles laughs cheekily, grabbing the collar of Derek’s jacket to reel him in and kiss him softly. “You said I’m fluffy.”

“Check your hearing, I said you’re annoying,” Derek responds, fondly though, and places a kiss on Stiles’ forehead.

“Oh come on,” Stiles says, tipping his head a little to brush his lips against Derek’s. “You’d be bored out of your mind if I wasn’t here to badger you every once in a while.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “’Every once in a while’? More like every waking minute.”

Pouting, Stiles asks, “Don’t you enjoy my company?”

Derek leans into Stiles again, pinning him against the washing machine and cupping his jaw before running a thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. He kisses the pout right off, licking into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles arches into him.

“I wouldn’t be in a safe place without you,” Derek admits in a quiet voice. Stiles stares at him open-mouthed, unable to form a coherent sentence, let alone a single thought. A furiously warm feeling sweeps through him. Derek isn’t one to confess a lot of things or talk about his emotions, so this is actually something huge.

“You’re not in a safe place, Derek,” Stiles says faintly.

“Maybe not,” Derek agrees. The intensity of his look is almost too much to bear. “I’m in a better place than I could have imagined, though. Your company—you are my safe place.”

“I need fresh pants,” Stiles declares, for a lack of something else to say.

***

“Aw, Scott never mentioned how cute you are,” Erica says, rubbing a hand over Stiles’ buzzed hair. She’s the blonde girl—woman—who dragged Scott away a couple of hours earlier. Her hair falls in loose locks over her shoulders. She has her legs crossed, palms braced on the table she’s sitting on and leans forward slightly, showing off her impressive cleavage. Stiles has a hard time not looking, although it’s clearly what Erica wants. “And you have manners. My, my!”

She cocks her head flashing a blinding smile at him. Stiles doesn’t know whether he should feel flattered or scared. Erica touches her upper lip with the tip of her tongue as she regards him with a faintly predatory gleam in her eyes. It makes him squirm.

Isaac, the lanky, tall guy, smirks wickedly while Boyd just rolls his eyes. The three of them are Derek’s Betas, they’re his pack. These news has Stiles genuinely surprised. For whatever reason, Stiles didn’t think Derek had a pack, and now Scott’s words seem more real: wherever the Alpha goes, the Betas go too.

Derek and Scott have gone…somewhere. Stiles found himself with the three Betas after Derek had agreed to let him help—even though they haven’t discussed anything in particular yet.

“So,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together, just to freeze the next second as Erica trails her finger across his cheek, drawing patterns connecting the moles on his skin. Her fingers come to rest at his chin before she shifts to continue on the other side of his face. Stiles dodges her this time, making her laugh cheerfully.

He clears his throat. “How come you guys are Derek’s Betas?”

Erica’s eyes are still on him. Stiles squirms again. He’s not used that someone pays so much attention to him. Stiles isn’t exactly uncomfortable, having such a beautiful woman as Erica coo over him is actually massaging his ego but…still. It’s weird.

Erica leans back again, flicking her hair over her shoulder and raising her chin. “I used to have seizures,” she answers. “They were getting worse, so my parents and I went through all the legal channels so I could get the Bite. Derek was the one who bit me and trained with me after. I decided to go with him.”

“And your parents are okay with that?” Stiles asks doubtfully.

Shrugging, she says, “It’s part of the deal. They knew I’d have to choose an Alpha when we did all of this paperwork and stuff. They knew this would happen, and they know Derek. It’s fine with them as long as they know I’m with him.”

Stiles is stunned into silence. Admittedly, he doesn’t know Derek personally but it still kind of surprises him to hear someone talk so highly of him. Apparently, Derek is enough of an honourable werewolf to make Erica’s parents sleep easily at night. He didn’t expect that, given the fact that Derek is mostly murderous eyebrows, unfair manhandling and hilariously ticklish—wait, no, that last part is actually in his favour—and ridiculous eyes… _dammit!_ Pissy facial expressions. There, that’s it. Derek Hale, a portrait: murderous eyebrows, unfair manhandling and pissy facial expressions.

Stiles turns around to Isaac. He doesn’t look like he’s thrilled to have to talk about it. Stiles considers moving on to Boyd, because he won’t make anyone talk.

“My dad died when I was sixteen,” Isaac tells him in a quiet but steady voice. “I had two options: foster care or getting the Bite and join a pack. I chose the latter. It’s been almost four years since then.”

Stiles gets the distinct feeling like there’s more to the story. He refrains from pressing, though, and Isaac’s answer is clear enough for him.

Boyd huffs when Stiles looks at him, and shortly explains, “Bitten by a rogue. Derek was the one who trained me, so I stayed with him.”

Stiles nods absently when suddenly something clenches painfully in his chest. Maybe it takes a while for Scott to figure it out how to control all of his newly gained abilities, but what if he chooses Derek as an Alpha in the end too? That would mean he’d leave Beacon Hills as soon as Derek and his pack do, and Stiles would end up separated from his best friend. Stiles hopes that Scott either doesn’t decide to join Derek, or Derek settles down in Beacon Hills; it’s been his home before, so why not?

“So what made Derek agree to let you stay?” Isaac asks then. “He usually doesn’t like to have strangers around.”

“I’m not a stranger,” Stiles protests. Erica snickers, and Boyd just shakes his head.

“You aren’t to Scott but you are to Derek,” he clarifies easily shrugging a little.

“I still can’t decide whether you have balls or are just plain dumb, laughing like a lunatic when a feral werewolf is about to shred you to pieces,” Isaac chimes in. The amused look is back. Erica openly laughs at that.

“He hesitated, though,” Boyd points out deliberately. They turn around to look at him. Stiles seems to be the only one who really is surprised.

Boyd shrugs again. “Scott hesitated when you laughed, and when you said his name, Scott recognized you.”

So Stiles wasn’t the only one who noticed, and he was right about it. He’s sure when Boyd, Isaac and Erica noticed, Derek did too.

“That’s a good thing, right?” He really needs the reassurance.

“It was still stupid,” Erica replies. “You were lucky. Maybe your laughter startled him and it’s why he recognized your voice when you called him.”

“Wow, thanks for the heads up,” Stiles retorts sarcastically. It’s not the answer he has hoped for but it’s still better than nothing.

“Stiles!”

Scott is on him before Stiles can properly react, hugging him tightly.

“Are you okay?” he asks a little frantic, pulling away and gripping Stiles’ shoulders, holding him at arm’s length. “Are you hurt?”

“No, buddy, I’m fine,” Stiles answers. He can’t help but beam at Scott, who smiles right back, eyes bright with relief and excitement, and oh god, it feels so good to finally see his best friend face to face again. He wouldn’t have lasted if he had to wait any longer. Stiles is amazed that he hasn’t gone insane after a month away from Scott.

Before they can start talking about everything that has piled up over the month, Derek grabs for Stiles’ arm and drags him along without a word, and Stiles can only do so much as stumble.

“Dude! What is it with you and the non-consensual manhandling?” Stiles complains. It earns him a dirty look from Derek, a suppressed grunt from Isaac and unashamed laughter from Erica. Derek bestows her with another of his pissy looks but he releases Stiles’ arm and marches on, Stiles in tow.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks as he reluctantly stumbles after Derek. “I swear, if you kick me out again, I’m going to—”

“We’re going to talk about the conditions of your… _help_.” Derek spits the word out like it’s a dirty thing.

“Why are you dragging me into another room?” Stiles says, annoyed, and tries to twist his way out of Derek’s hold on him. It’s no use, once again. “You have super-hearing.”

“The rooms here are soundproof when the doors are closed,” Derek explains. The way he stops in his tracks and looks at Stiles with his eyebrows drawn together in a threatening way tells Stiles that Derek realized what he just said. And apparently, he thinks it was a mistake. Which Stiles would love to say it wasn’t but…interesting. Soundproof rooms. Derek reads it off his face, obviously, because he looks like he wants to slam him against the next best flat surface. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Stiles looks at him innocently but Derek only narrows his eyes before he turns and starts walking again. When they reach the door of the room Derek deems suitable, he holds it open for Stiles, and follows him inside once Stiles has stepped in. The door closes quietly.

“I thought you already told me your conditions,” Stiles says turning around to Derek.

“Let’s see if you remember them,” Derek replies. Stiles feels like he’s back in school. It’s stupid.

“I do as you say,” he starts, ticking it off on his fingers. “I don’t interfere during physical training—whatever this is supposed to mean—and I don’t try out my ideas on Scott.”

Derek nods curtly, and Stiles even dares to go so far and say that there’s a vague satisfied expression around the line of his mouth. But that might be his imagination.

“First of all, I only agreed to this, because Scott is still reluctant,” Derek says. Stiles stares at him in confusion. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“He still barely accepts that he’s a werewolf now,” Derek elaborates, rolling his eyes like Stiles is completely retarded. “The longer and harder he fights it, the longer and harder it will be for him to learn control.”

Stiles wants to jump and say something about that unintentional innuendo but Derek’s glare is a new way of murderous, and he just swallows what he wanted to blurt out.

“You know him; you’re his best friend, so it’s on you now to make him accept it. Trust me, you want to. If he doesn’t that means he’ll have to stay in here for ever,” Derek continues. “He can’t go back. I get that he didn’t want this but whining and complaining won’t make it go away. He’ll have to accommodate, and I’m here to help him.”

Stiles suddenly starts seeing why Erica, Isaac and Boyd stayed with Derek. It’s not much, sure, but Derek isn’t here to make Scott’s life harder, and—if the Frustrated Eyebrows are anything to go by—he is clearly distressed about the fact that there is little to no progress on Scott learning control. Stiles rubs a hand over his hair.

“You want me to accept his wolflihood?” Stiles asks, just to be sure. The way Derek’s lips curl surly at the last word are answer enough.

“I can do that,” Stiles hurries to say. “Then what?”

“Then he has to find an anchor. It should get easier after that.”

“Why hasn’t he found an anchor yet?”

Derek makes a noise at the back of his throat that conveys his annoyance. “I already told you I have no control about that. Other than that, it has to do with his attitude. He doesn’t really try. He still tries to separate himself from his werewolf aspect, and as long as he keeps doing it, he won’t be able to get it under control.”

“Because the werewolf and Scott aren’t two different…beings but one,” Stiles finishes, and Derek nods. There’s a thoughtful expression on his face now, like he didn’t expect Stiles to say that or to figure it out.

“At least one of us will always be around when you’re with him,” Derek says then. “To keep you safe.”

Stiles isn’t particularly excited about the idea but he gets that it’s necessary, andIsaac, Erica and Boyd don’t seem to be sour jackasses like Derek. He’ll deal.

“One last thing,” Derek says, back to the glaring again. “If you only so much as once do something you’re not supposed to do, I’ll blow this whole thing off, and you’re back to being banned from coming here.”

“Oh my god, dude, relax. I got it.”

“Really?” Derek arches his eyebrows. “I was sure you’d try to make an innuendo out of it again.”

Stiles openly gapes, and a pleased smirk stretches across Derek’s face. He opens the door and walks out then, leaving Stiles alone.

Wow. He takes everything back. He totally doesn’t get why Erica, Isaac and Boyd stayed with Derek. What a dumbass.

***

It’s past midnight when they find a motel and check in. Stiles feels relieved that he can sleep in a bed again. They have been sleeping in the Camaro for a week now, and Stiles gets cranky. No matter how flashy and hot that car looks it’s not made forsleeping in, much less having sex in it. They’ve tried that too.

Stiles pulls out the bag with their freshly washed stuff while Derek grabs the rest of the stuff they need. Everything is quiet around them, and there is not much traffic. Maybe it’s because of how late it is, Stiles can’t tell.

Their room is small but surprisingly clean. The first thing Stiles does is tryout the bed, and compared to the seats of the Camaro it’s heavenly. He runs a hand over the blanket. Derek puts the bag down on the small table, and Stiles catches how he inhales deeply a couple of times. Smelling if there’s something weird in here. Maybe they’re a little paranoid. It has saved them a couple of times.

“You,” Stiles says pointing a finger at Derek. “Sleep, now. No discussion.”

Derek smirks tiredly. “Bossy.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Am I granted permission to go take a shower first?” Derek mocks playfully. Stiles narrows his eyes at him. Derek enjoys making fun of him when Stiles starts getting grumpy and bosses Derek around. Mostly, Derek doesn’t mind, he knows better than to start a full-blown. He starts cracking stupid jokes, though.

Stiles waves his hand dismissively, and Derek disappears into the bathroom with a smug grin on his lips.

“Jackass,” Stiles says loud enough for Derek to hear it easily. He gets laughter in response.

Stiles shakes their clean clothes onto the table and sits down before he begins sorting through it and folding everything neatly. It’s something to keep himself occupied, so he doesn’t have to think about what Derek said to him earlier. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable about it; it’s more of the opposite, actually. The feeling Derek released within him is fuzzy and warm and all-around amazing. Stiles only wishes they could actually be safe.

They haven’t been for nine months now.

Derek comes out of the bathroom with only some sweatpants on that hang low on his hips. His hair is damp from the shower, and really, he just looks ridiculous. Stiles wants to lick him all over, trace the droplets that run down Derek’s neck with his tongue and _suck_ —

“Stop,” Derek says intently, eyes fixed on Stiles with a dark expression to them. Stiles eyes flutter from Derek’s neck to his face. “Stop broadcasting or we won’t get much sleep tonight.”

Derek has that look on his face that says he _dares_ Stiles to go on creating dirty, dirty images in his mind. He’d have an excuse to pounce Stiles then, and if the expectant expression on Derek’s features is anything to go by, it’s exactly what he wants. Stiles draws in a deep breath, collecting himself, and swallows. It’s not like he would object if they ended up making out again but he really wants Derek to get some sleep.

“Go to sleep,” he orders eventually, turning back to the clothes. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, and then he hears Derek’s almost silent footsteps as he comes over. His hands slide from Stiles’ shoulders to his neck, fingertips brushing softly over his skin.

“Come to bed with me,” Derek asks gently as his fingers stroke gently over his jaw, his cheeks, down to the front of his neck. It’s an innocent invitation, and Stiles relaxes into the touch. He gets up from the chair and turns to look at Derek.

“In a minute,” he promises before kissing him. Stiles grabs for clean boxers and a shirt as he heads for the bathroom to shower himself. He wants to get it over with quickly but the warm water is a pleasure, and Stiles ends up taking ten more minutes. After that, he can’t get into his boxers and the shirt fast enough. He almost falls face forward on the floor as he stumbles out of the bathroom, and Derek’s chuckle is echoing in his ears. The lights are turned off already, so it takes Stiles a couple of seconds to adjust his sight.

Stiles walks around the bed once he can make out shapes in the dark, and crawls under the sheets, presses himself to Derek. Derek wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, and his hand runs down Stiles’ back and slips under his shirt to draw patterns onto his skin. Stiles lets out a pleased noise, and shuts his eyes. Derek’s lips ghost over his closed eyelids. Lying in bed with Derek feels incredible: sweet and tender and safe, and Stiles goes boneless against him. He can feel Derek relax too, shifting a little and wrapping himself around Stiles. It became a thing a little while after they left Beacon Hills, the way they sleep together, all tangled up and wrapped around each other. Stiles thinks maybe it’s because they’re both afraid the other might disappear, dissolve into thin air if they don’t hold on tightly enough. 

“Good night,” Stiles mumbles against the skin of Derek’s shoulder with his eyes already drooping. Derek makes a pleased humming noise. He’s out cold before he can form another thought, enveloped in Derek’s warm embrace.

Stiles wakes up to Derek trailing his fingers up and down Stiles’ spine, under his shirt. Derek is gazing at him intently, observant and curious. He is relaxed, his lips are soft, and his default frown is nowhere to be seen. Stiles smiles sleepily at him and stretches lazily. He’s hugging his pillow but the blankets cover both of them only from the hips downwards.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks around a yawn.

“Almost eleven,” Derek answers. Stiles makes a surprised sound while Derek flashes him an amused grin.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Not for long. I woke up about ten minutes before you,” Derek says. His hand stops wandering up and down Stiles’ back, instead he places it over his tailbone, fanning out his fingers. Stiles bucks up into the touch a little and buries his face into the pillow for a moment. Lazy mornings are rare and he loves them so, so much. He’s a little surprised that Derek has slept for so long too. Usually, he’s up and about after only a few hours of sleep. Derek doesn’t allow himself the luxury of restful sleep very often.

“Sleep well?” Derek asks, and Stiles stretches again, nodding satisfied.

“Did you?”

Derek smiles softly, and it makes something warm and huge blossom in Stiles’ chest.

“Yeah,” Derek assures him. Stiles wrestles one of his hands out of under the pillow and rakes his fingers through Derek’s adorable bed hair. He crawls closer to Derek before he leans in to kiss him, and Derek meets him halfway.

They stay in bed for a while longer. Stiles loses his shirt in between and Derek peppers his moles with kisses. He bites gently at the bottom of his back before he trails his tongue up Stiles’ vertebrae to the nape of his neck. Stiles can’t prevent the tremble from running through his body. He presses his face into his pillow, arching into Derek’s touch, as his moan is muffled by the cloth. Goose bumps tingle over his skin and he’s gasping for air when Derek lightly blows his breath over the wet stripe he licked over Stiles’ back.

Stiles doesn’t have to stop himself from forming hot sex scenes in his head this time. He gladly gives in to Derek’s kisses and touches, and Derek makesappreciative, pleased noises when Stiles dips down to blow him.

Stiles is shamelessly whimpering by the time Derek’s worked two fingers into him. He’s burning, and hard, almost painfully so, and Derek just _wouldn’t_ touch him.

“Derek, please,” Stiles rasps out, screwing his eyes shut and groaning when Derek slightly rolls his fingertips against this _spot_. Derek leans closer from where he’s kneeling beside him and mouths at his jawline. Stiles curses at the smug hum Derek lets out. It’s achingly sweet torture that sends sparksthrough his veins. Stiles goes down on his forearms and then presses his shoulders against the pillow, mashing his face into the cotton. He spreads his legs wider, shuddering when his dick brushes against the sheets. It’s not much friction but it’s better than none at all.

Derek thumbs along his rim where Stiles is stretched around two of his fingers but otherwise he’s stilled his motions. Stiles turns his head to look up at him just to find Derek stare at where his fingers are buried inside of Stiles. He shudders involuntarily. Derek drags his gaze away from Stiles’ ass to look at him, and Stiles can’t help but push back against his hand, urging him on to move.

Only Derek stops moving at all, the expression in his eyes wicked and expectant and Stiles _refuses_ to get impatient, to start begging. But the pressure is right there, right at the edge of ecstatic pleasure, and yet not enough. Stiles loathes Derek’s stamina and stupid werewolf self-control. He grits his teeth as the desire to rock against Derek’s fingers sweeps through him, and is determined to hold out long enough that Derek gets impatient.

Of course Stiles gives in. He’s on the verge of feeling mind-blowingly amazing. If Derek doesn’t want to contribute, fine, Stiles will wreck him anyway. He shoves back against the pressure of Derek’s fingers, and moans in delight when he hits gold. Stiles’ cock drags over the sheets beneath him. It’s a minimum of friction, not enough but taunting all the way, and makes Stiles repeat the movement. He falls into a steady rhythm of pushing back and trying to grind his throbbing erection against the blankets. Derek is rigid next to him. Distantly, Stiles thinks he’s holding his breath, and can’t stop the smirk from forming on his lips.

“More,” he orders around a moan when two of Derek’s fingers aren’t enough anymore. Stiles arches his back deliberately when he hears Derek’s breath hitch in his throat, and then there’s a third finger when he rocks his hips back and Stiles throws his head back, mewling out Derek’s name. Derek mutters a curse under his breath and reaches out to grip his dick with his free hand. Stiles catches his hand with one of his, entwining their fingers so Derek can’t touch himself.

Stiles ruts against Derek’s hand with a constant stream of blatant gasps and moans tumbling out of his mouth while Derek watches him fucking himself on his fingers. His jaw is clenched and his pupils blown wide. Derek’s eyes are practically glued to his ass. Stiles shifts a little and clenches around him, making Derek screw his eyes shut and let out a shuddering breath. It’s satisfying and hot. He grins when Derek catches his eyes, and licks his lips purposely, knowing that it drives Derek crazy. Derek lets out a dark, impatient noise, grumbling low in his chest, and Stiles shoves back hard, keening.

Derek gets behind him without removing his fingers and pulls him up into a kneeling position, pressing his chest flush against Stiles’ back. Stiles whimpers at the loss of friction on his dick but Derek curls his hand loosely around the base of his neck and tips his head back, biting down on his shoulder.

Stiles grinds down on Derek’s fingers the same moment when Derek pushes them in deep to the knuckle, and Stiles cries out a pathetic sound as his orgasm slams through him, making him see blinding white sparks behind closed eyelids, his back bow-string tight. Derek’s lips are at his ear, whispering, “So good, Stiles,” and Stiles wails helplessly.

He’s grossly sweating by the time Derek wrings a second mind-melting orgasm out of him, having nothing but _nailed_ Stiles into the mattress. Stiles feels like he’s floating inches above the bed while he’s lulled into a cloud of comfort and bliss. Derek stretches out next to him, panting but looking as blissful as Stiles feels. Stiles wants to lie in bed with Derek for ever, sated and content, and not moving at all.

“You wrecked me,” he says, trying to catch his breath and attempting to glare at Derek. Derek only so much as arches an eyebrow.

“You drove me _crazy_ fucking yourself on my fingers like that,” he snorts. “You have no idea what you look like. What you do to me.”

Derek reaches out and brushes damp hair away from Stiles’ forehead, massaging tiny circles into his scalp with his fingertips. It’s sweet and soothing, and Stiles lets his eyes fall shut.

“You brought it on yourself,” Stiles points out, opening his eyes again to look at Derek. There is a shark-like grin tugging at the corners of Derek’s mouth; he doesn’t seem bothered at all, more like deeply pleased.

“It was worth every second,” he remarks. Stiles huffs amused.

Once he’s come down from his high, he registers the hunger that quickly grows to a nagging feeling. Stiles sits up and peels away the sheet that stick to his sweaty skin.

“I’m going to get breakfast,” he announces. Derek shoots him an amused look.

“Looking like that?” he says, propping his head up on a hand. He scrunches up his nose. “No one will sell you anything when you look like that…or smell like that.”

“Looking like what?” Stiles asks as he fishes for clean clothes. “What do I smell like?”

“You look…,” Derek hesitates as if searching for the right word. “Porny.”

Incredulously, Stiles echoes, “Porny? I didn’t even know you had that in your vocabulary.”

“Porny,” Derek confirms, ignoring Stiles’ comment, and smugly adds, “And you smell like you’ve just had sex.”

“ _Duh_ ,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “That’s because I’ve just _had_ sex.”

“Yeah, and it’s showing in every way possible,” Derek informs him, still wearing that extremely self-satisfied expression, like it’s his greatest pleasure to make Stiles look like he came straight out of porn. Stiles grumbles quietly and disappears into the bathroom to grab a quick shower.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror when he steps out of the shower, and he doesn’t look better than before. His hair is still—or again—damp and sticks out in every direction, his skin flushed from the cool water of the shower, and his lips are red and swollen, and yeah—porny.

Derek openly laughs at him when Stiles comes out again. Stiles makes a bitch face at him.

“At least you tried,” Derek comments. “Do you want me to go?”

“You’re hilarious,” Stiles scoffs. He rubs his hands through his hair only to realize that, really, it’s counterproductive. Derek looks gleeful,and Stiles is torn between wanting to smack him and wanting to jump him again. “Like someone would sell _you_ anything.”

“I don’t look like—”

“Like you’ve been thoroughly fucked, yes, thank you very much. No, you look like you came straight out of Photoshop,” Stiles interrupts. “That doesn’t make it better.”

Stiles buries his face in his hands. There’s nothing he can say now to make a valid point, because Derek doesn’t have to do much more than just flash a smile at someone to mostly get what he wants. It’s ridiculous.

Derek pries Stiles’ hands away from his face and gently pulls him closer. He sits on the edge of the bed with Stiles standing between his knees and looks up to him. Stiles runs his fingers along Derek’s jawline.

“It does make a difference,” Derek teases while he rides up Stiles’ shirt with his knuckles and then leans in to mouth at Stiles’ stomach. “Photoshopped against porny, well, let me guess what people in a small town like this would choose.”

Derek latches onto the skin right next to his navel, and Stiles groans before shoving him off. “You’d be surprised.”

Stiles stuffs some cash into his pockets. He waves at Derek who looks damn seductive and comfortable, sprawled out naked on the bed. So not fair.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Try not to attract too many cougars,” Derek advises with a gleeful quirk to his mouth. “I don’t want to have to rescue you from their clutches. It would end up being messy.”

Stiles rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at him before stepping out of the room. It’s a warm, sunny day, and Stiles squints against the sunlight. He saw a bakery last night when they drove to the motel, and it’s not far away.

He rounds a corner and abruptly runs into another person—and suddenly his heart is rabbiting in his chest: the first thing he notices on the other person is badge, US Marshals. Stiles keeps his head down. There are two of them, if the two pairs of shoes are anything to go by, and Stiles feels himself tense. He doesn’t know if they took a whiff of Stiles and Derek being here but even if they’re not in town for them, the Marshals would probably recognize him.

“Sorry,” he mutters and slips past them without looking up. He walks away quickly, pulling out his phone. After months and months of running and hiding and being alert at all times, Stiles’ hands don’t even shake when he sends a text to Derek that only says, _Marshals._

“Excuse me,” he hears behind him. Stiles draws in a deep breath and turns around. It’s a dilemma, really. If he just ran, they would come after him, because it is always suspicious when someone bolts as soon as you address them. Turning around to face the Marshals is as stupid. Stiles’ face is most likely to be etched into their brains. Stiles is fucked either way. There is still a slight chance that they just want to point out that he dropped money when he pulled out his phone.

Stiles can pinpoint the exact moment both of the Marshals recognize him. So he does the only thing he can do. He runs.

He curses under his breath, knowing he can’t go back to the motel. Stiles throws the phone away on his way, sprinting past passers-by and trying to use as many alleys and turns as possible.

The hand on his back makes him jump before he’s tackled down and slammed to the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes they don’t find Derek.

***

It’s dark all around and the only thing Stiles hears is Scott’s breathing. Derek has agreed to let him stay overnight, which is a first. The only condition he had was that the door to Scott’s room stays open at all times, and it was something that Stiles (and Scott) didn’t mind agreeing to. It’s been a couple of weeks since Stiles joined the training squad.

“Dude,” Stiles says into the silence. Scott broke Boyd’s arm today after he wolfed out again, and it’s taken a fair amount of violence from Derek to get Scott back on track. Stiles is sure he’ll be haunted by nightmares for at least a week. “It’s been almost two months.”

There’s shuffling coming from Scott’s bed but he doesn’t answer. Stiles has tried to talk to him about this whole Accept Your Inner Werewolf thing but Scott hadn’t taken it well. Maybe it’s not Stiles best idea to bring it out again in the dark of the night. He refuses to keep watching Scott struggle, though.

Eventually, Scott says, “I know.”

“He’s trying to help you,” Stiles adds hesitantly. He can _feel_ Scott glaring daggers at him. “I get that it’s hard but you have to meet him halfway. Derek can’t control you, he can’t do this for you.”

“I know,” Scott says again, louder. “It’s just—I don’t want this. Any of this!”

Stiles sighs. He doesn’t know what to say to make Scott feel better. As excited as Stiles is about his best friend’s lycanthropy, Scott doesn’t share his enthusiasm.

“It’s a given, don’t you think?” Stiles points out then, going for another try. “That Alpha didn’t ask you, I understand that this sucks for you and that this whole thing isn’t easy. But think about Boyd. He was in the same situation. You can’t keep holding onto your I-don’t-want-this-attitude, because the only thing you’ll get from it is an eternity in these rooms.”

Scott huffs indignantly.

“I’m not even kidding,” Stiles continues. “Don’t you think that once you’re past this initial stage of your wolflihood, it’s going to be awesome? Erica, Isaac and Boyd don’t seem to have that hard of life if you ask me. You can continue your life mostly as normal as before.”

“How do you know that?” Scott sounds like a sulky little kid.

“Because Derek and his pack are the prime examples, that’s how. And you’d see it too if you paid attention,” Stiles replies, a little harsher than he intended to. “Being a werewolf doesn’t mean you can’t keep living your life. You just have to learn to control that new side of yours, and once you accept the fact that you’re not doomed, it’s going to be a piece of cake to contain your anger and the shift.”

There’s another silence. Stiles wants to groan in frustration, to shake Scott and make him see past this.

“Piece of cake?” Scott croaks then. He sounds so desperate that something in Stiles’ chest clenches.

“Yeah, buddy,” Stiles answers confidently. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

“You don’t think I’m doomed?”

Stiles can’t help but roll his eyes, fondly nonetheless. “You’re a shifter, dude, not a psychopathic monster.”

“I’ll be there with you, okay? All the way,” he adds after a beat. He turns his head to see Scott beaming at him through the darkness. Stiles smiles back.

Of course it’s easier said than done, Stiles realizes. Scott adopts the smooth and swift motions Derek teaches him rather quickly but pain is still the only thing that brings him back from being wolfed out. Stiles suggests happy childhood memories as an anchor; Scott’s mom when the memories don’t work, and list of several other things. None of it is strong enough.

Derek’s pushed Scott especially far today. The growling is so loud Stiles is barely able to make out any other noise while Scott and Derek go at each other like they’re going to war. Stiles is hovering in the far corner of the training hall when Scott throws Derek off and slams him into a row of bleachers. The cracking of bones is loud and nauseating.

He doesn’t think when he gets up and sprints to where Derek is sprawled out between crashed bleachers. His leg is broken, so badly that Stiles can see the bone sticking out of the flesh. It’s disgusting, really, but Scott’s growling and Derek’s pained noise snap him back into focus.

“What are you doing, idiot?” Derek groans from behind him. “Run.”

“You don’t run away from a dog, he only sees it as an invitation to chase you,” Stiles shoots back. He’s aware he’s comparing Scott to an animal which he isn’t but he has the faint thought that maybe the instinct is the same. Derek snorts, and then lets out a noise that clearly indicates that he’s badly hurt.

“Scott,” Stiles says, and his voice is shakier that he’d like. Scott growl grows a little quieter. Stiles takes a small step forward, and repeats, “Scott,” more firmly this time. The growling stops, and Scott blinks, his eyes go back to normal as he retreats.

Erica comes skittering into the hall then, and is between Stiles and Scott in the blink of an eye.

“You okay?” she asks Stiles, eyes on Scott all the time.

Nodding, Stiles says, “Yeah.”

“Stiles?” Scott’s voice comes out shy. 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m fine, don’t worry,” Stiles answers as he watches how Scott’s face shifts back to normal. Derek grunts quietly, and Stiles turns around to take a look at him. His leg isn’t healed, not even remotely, and there is a remarkable amount of blood pooling on the floor. Stiles suppresses a gag. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“The bone has to be reset,” Erica answers, coming around to kneel beside Derek’s injured leg. Stiles scrunches up his face.

“I thought you guys have supernatural healing abilities.”

Derek rolls his eyes impatiently—he can’t possibly be in so much pain—and Erica smirks at him. “As long as our bones don’t look us in the eyes they can mend themselves without help. If you break your leg like that it has to be reset too before you can put a cast on.”

She grabs Derek’s leg, and Derek shoots her a dirty look. He gnashes his teeth all the while Erica keeps grinning at him.

“On three,” she suggests. Derek nods curtly, visibly bracing himself. Erica snaps the bone back into place even before she counts to two. Stiles winces at the cracking sound, and Derek lets out something that suspiciously sounds like a whine.

“Good as new,” Erica comments as Scott inches closer to them. Stiles watches how the wound on Derek’s leg closes and there’s nothing left but an angry red cut that is fading by the minute. Derek scowls at her but Erica only flicks her hair back and wipes her hands on Derek’s ruined pants. It’s weirdly intimate. Over the course of the last couple of weeks, Stiles has found out that Erica was the first one out of the pack who’s been bitten by Derek, and she’s also second in command. So it’s probably no wonder that they’re close.

“Um,” Scott says coyly. “Sorry.”

Derek shrugs dismissively before he gets up as if he wasn’t seriously hurt just very few moments ago. He grabs for Stiles’ arm again, very loosely this time, and more guides than pushes him out of the training hall. Stiles is too stunned to protest.

“Piss him off,” Derek throws back over his shoulder to Erica, and to Scott, “Try to recall what pulled you back this time.”

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks suspiciously when Derek leads him through the corridors.

“Out,” he responds shortly. Stiles almost stumbles over his own feet and stares openly at Derek. Derek glances at him with raised eyebrows, and Stiles feels the flush creeping up his cheeks when he realizes Derek means they’re getting out of the building.

He clears his throat. “Why?” Dammit, he sounds embarrassingly squeaky.

“I’m testing a theory,” Derek says. Stiles waits for him to elaborate but Derek seems like that was enough of an explanation.

“What theory?” he prompts. Derek huffs. He opens the door that leads outside to the park grounds of the hospital. The facility has an own separated garden.

The cold January air is stinging and Stiles’ breath forms milky clouds. He pulls his hoodie tightly around himself while he follows Derek through the bare garden.

“I think you’re his anchor,” Derek explains. “I may be wrong. It’s possible you were just that lucky.”

“Wow. You really don’t go out of your way to give me a heads up,” Stiles  snarks. Yet his heart stutters a little at the thought he might be Scott’s anchor. That would solve a lot of problems, and it would mean Scott would finally be able to control his shift.

“I’m not here to make you feel better,” Derek replies simply. Stiles shivers and tucks his hands into his armpits. Why Derek had to leave the building will probably remain a mystery for ever but at least he could’ve lent Stiles get his jacket.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re here for bonding experience,” Stiles snorts derisively, and adds, “With Scott.”

Derek frowns disdainfully at him. “Do you think you’re better fit to help him with this?”

“I didn’t say that,” Stiles mutters, pulling up his shoulders. Derek regards him with a guarded expression. He shrugs off his jacket then—a leather jacket which seems to be a Hale Pack Trademark, because Erica, Isaac and Boyd each have one too—and hands it wordlessly to Stiles. Stiles gapes at it for a couple of moments until Derek glowers at him, and Stiles hurriedly takes it. Blissful warmth envelopes him when he slips his arms into the sleeves. Stiles can’t help but hum out a pleased little noise.

“Thank you,” he says, because his parents taught him manners, and watches how a small grin tugs at the corners of Derek’s lips. Stiles inhales the scent the jacket gives off—somewhat earthy and a tiny little bit smoky—and it takes loads of his self-control not to bury his nose in the collar and smell it.

They walk in silence. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, and Stiles doesn’t like it.

“So, uh,” he begins, and clears his throat. “How long did it take the others to gain control and find an anchor?”

“Isaac found his anchor first,” Derek answers easily, shrugging. “It’s taken all of them a while. Sometimes the anchor is something you wouldn’t think of first.”

It’s not the reply Stiles has expected but he takes what he gets. “What’s your anchor? Or is it different for born werewolves?”

Derek frowns at him, and he manages to look both, surprised and annoyed. He doesn’t respond right away.

“It’s not different for born werewolves. We all need an anchor,” Derek tells him finally. Stiles waits for more information but again Derek doesn’t go on. He doesn’t miss the fact that Derek didn’t tell him what his anchor was, and for a moment Stiles ponders if revealing your anchor is a huge deal. Maybe Derek just doesn’t want to tell him, though, and even if Stiles is a little disappointed by that, he refrains from pressing. For all he knows Derek’s anchor could be something embarrassing.

“Isaac was sixteen when you took him under your wing,” Stiles points out then, another thing that kind of surprised him. Derek raises an eyebrow. “Erica and Boyd were around that age too. That’s what they told me at least.”

Derek keeps looking at him, and Stiles finds himself squirming under the scrutiny. Obviously, Derek doesn’t see Stiles’ comment as a prompt for an explanation.

“What made you take on a bunch of teenagers?” Stiles asks after a pause. “I mean, uh, you don’t strike me like a guy who decides to train new werewolves out of the goodness of your heart.”

Derek scoffs at that. He looks faintly sour but Stiles figures it’s not very far off his default expression. Indistinctly, Stiles thinks he’s being unfair, having seen how easy Derek’s Betas are around him.

Derek takes his time answering again. “It’s about power,” he admits and looks directly at Stiles. “They make me stronger.”

 Stiles is actually surprised how unashamed Derek seems to be about this, how he doesn’t give off the vibe of feeling guilty or selfish. He feels the pang of anger at that, clenching his hand into a fist. It’s not even exactly his business but Derek’s here to teach Scott, probably even with the intention to make him pack. 

“Way to go about it,” Stiles mutters, snarky. Derek sneers at him.

“Didn’t you just say I didn’t strike you as a guy who does things out of the goodness of his heart?” Derek counters with a hard edge to his voice. “Well, you’re right. I don’t.”

Stiles stops in his tracks, grinding his teeth, while Derek continues to walk. It’s like he doesn’t care at all. And Stiles has a hard time seeing why Erica, Boyd and Isaac have such a good relationship with Derek when the guy only took on their cases for power and strength, using them for his own benefit. Really, it’s outrageous.

“Why are you such a dick about it?”

Derek turns around to face him, all hard frown and menacing glare. “And who are you to judge me?”

“You’re _using_ them,” Stiles shoots back, accusatory. Derek looksmurderous. He’s still some steps ahead of Stiles but he doesn’t close the distance. Stiles is too angry to really care that he’s pissing off an Alpha. What does it matter, anyway?

“What do you know about it, huh?” Derek spits out crossly. “You’re stupidly, mindlessly happy to have a werewolf for a best friend, and your carelessness almost killed you both. You know nothing, Stiles, _nothing_.”

“Well, fuck you, too,” Stiles snaps, swallowing down the acidic feeling of being called naïve.

“Your quick-wittedness is remarkable,” Derek mocks with a humourless smile on his lips, his tone harsh. Stiles clenches his jaw, frozen in place, and refuses to yield to Derek’s glare. He won’t turn around and bolt like a sulky child. He feels humiliated, and he’s sure that was Derek’s intention.

“You’re clearly not the right person to be an Alpha,” Stiles says bitterly. Derek’s dark expression falters for a moment but he quickly schools it into yet another frown. He looks beyond furious. It’s the first time that Stiles feels fear crushing through him when facing Derek, even though Derek doesn’t lose control, he doesn’t even do as much as let his eyes flash red. His fury is eerily quiet, and it’s more disturbing than anything else. Stiles obviously hit a spot, unintentionally, and still…enough to make Derek look like he’s seconds away from dismembering something, possibly Stiles.

Still, it gives Stiles a sick sense of superiority, and enough of his dignity back, so that he feels safe to turn on his heel and walk back the way they’ve come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Kate, Chris and Rena who basically saved my sorry ass and cheer me on.

Stiles scratches the skin around the cuff. His anxiety has subsided a little, and now he’s blatantly bored. He knows they haven’t gotten to Derek; otherwise he wouldn’t still be sitting in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the table, and left to himself for what feels like hours. Stiles desperately wants to know where Derek is and prays to everything holy that he’s not stupid enough to try a rescue. That would only lead to much more trouble. It’s annoying that he can’t even eavesdrop on the Marshals talking to get an idea of what’s happening.

The door to the interrogation room opens and in comes the Marshal Stiles ran into earlier. He’s tall with ash blonde hair and dark eyes but he doesn’t look very memorable. Stiles eyes him warily when the Marshal takes seat opposite of him, placing a folder on the table and regarding Stiles with a measured look.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he says appraisingly before he flips open the folder. It’s Stiles’ file. Stiles is not even surprised he has one. “I’m Marshal Jones.” 

“Is Marshal your name or your title?” Stiles asks cheekily. Jones’ mouth curls into a thin-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I suppose you know why you’re in custody,” Jones continues, quickly casting a glance over the first page of the folder. There’s not much to the file, Stiles can tell. He doesn’t have an endless list of crimes. Anyway, what kind of statement is that even?

Stiles shrugs and replies, “I don’t know if accidently bumping into a Marshal actually warrants being taken into custody.”

“You don’t seem to realize what a serious situation you’re in, Mr. Stilinski,” Jones says calmly, and pins Stiles with a look.

Stiles huffs, “Why?” and asks, “Did you spill coffee on your uniform when I ran into you? Because, you know, I’ll totally pay the dry cleaning.”

“You haven’t committed a crime yet that can’t be undone,” Jones carries on unimpressed. “Where is Derek Hale?”

“Huh.” Stiles scratches the back of his head. “I have no idea, man, for all I know he’s frolicking naked in the woods.”

Jones smiles wryly at him. It’s irritating how unaffected he is, and he’s not the first law enforcer Stiles has talked to. Normally, they are easy to annoy whereas Jones seems mildly amused at most and keeps his cool.

“All charges against you will be dropped if you cooperate. The only thing I need to know is where to find Derek Hale, and I’ll tell the court you’ve helped to bring in an alleged murderer. This will clear your record, Mr. Stilinski, and you’ll be free to continue living your life in peace,” Jones explains patiently, folding his hands over Stiles’ file. “You could finish your degree in criminal psychology and go into, I don’t know, behavioural analysis. Make your father proud.”

The expression in Jones’ eyes says that he knows exactly that he’s jabbing his finger into Stiles’ weak spot.

Jones adds, “In fact, you could be reunited with your father by tonight.”

Stiles hates that he’s tongue-tied in that very moment. He hates that he has no witty remark to play it down with, so he remains silent, glowering at Jones who openly smiles at him; a wicked, knowing smile that makes Stiles want to claw his face off.

“So, where can I find Hale?”

Stiles purses his lips and shakes his head. “You can always try the dog shelter. They tend to mistake wolves for dogs, you know, maybe you’re lucky.”

“I’ll give you some time to think about your options, Mr. Stilinski,” Jones tells him standing up and collecting the folder. “I’m sure you’re going to make the right decision.”

With that Jones gets up and leaves the room. Stiles manages not to breathe out his relief but still it feels good to actually have confirmation that Derek’s still out there. He puts his arms on the table, pillowing his head on his forearms.

Stiles exhales deeply and allows himself to think about his father for a moment. Something cold clenches painfully in his chest. The promise of being able to see him again is almost overwhelming, and Stiles wants, wants, _wants_ so much—

He stops right there. Not even the prospect of seeing his dad again would make Stiles turn Derek in. It’s not even something Stiles so much as considers. They have tried to negotiate with him before, made the most ridiculous promises just so Stiles would tell them where to find Derek. Stiles smiles humourlessly to himself. There’s almost something funny about how all of those policemen and agents and Marshals think they’ve got something on him.

Jones doesn’t come back soon, and Stiles has no idea whatsoever what time it is. The room has no windows. He’s growing restless. Jones not coming back to interrogate him could mean a lot of things: maybe Jones wants to wear Stiles out, maybe they’ve found Derek—or even have a lead on his whereabouts. 

It’s endless hours later when Jones finally comes back in. He sits opposite Stiles again, quiet for a couple of moments, and then says, “I think you’ve had enough time to make a decision.”

“Could use a couple more hours to be honest,” Stiles answers with a shrug, slouching down on the chair. He raises both eyebrows at Jones who has a wry smile on again.

“You think stalling will help Hale disappear?” Jones says almost wickedly amused. “He won’t leave without you, so it’s only a matter of time until we find him. I’m offering you an out here. The moment we find him that offer is off the table, Stiles.”

Stiles raises his open palms. “Whoa, slow down there, dude, I’m not ready yet for first names.”

Jones leans back in his chair, relaxed and sure of himself, and Stiles hates him for his stupid cool. “Is that your answer?”

“You haven’t even asked me a question,” Stiles counters, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the table while his right arm hangs loosely by his side. Two can play that game. Jones is stalling too, Stiles figures; he hasn’t found Derek.

Jones stays calm. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because of a lack of words or because he’s trying to keep it together. That guy can give Derek a run for his money; it’s impressive how he’s able to school his face into a mask that Stiles can’t read.

“Well,” Jones says evenly. “If that’s your decision…”

“Dude, still not a question,” Stiles points out, shaking his head. “You know, there has to be a question mark and you have to raise your voice a little at the end.” He makes an upswing motion with his finger.

“Do you recall what the last thing you said to him was?” Jones asks, getting up and walking to the door. He sends a sardonic smile Stiles’ way. Stiles doesn’t answer while he tries to maintain a bored expression on his face.

“You are aware that those were your last words ever to him, right?”

Stiles doesn’t respond but digs his nails into the palms of his hands. Jones’ smile widens a little before he adds, “Was that enough of a question for you?” 

Stiles swallows down a curse before it manages to tumble out of his mouth and he watches Jones leaving. He shifts on the chair again, sitting up straight and propping his feet up on the edge of the seat. Jones’ voice echoes in his head, “He won’t leave without you.” Maybe Stiles should be a little more surprised how certain Jones has been about it but he loathes the feeling of being helpless, useless even; of being a sitting duck and bait to lure Derek in. Sure, Derek isn’t stupid, he knows better than to barge in unprepared, however, lingering around isn’t going to end well either. 

He feels tired and anxious all of a sudden, itching all over with the need to _do_ something, to get out, to get away—to get to Derek. Stiles realizes that he hasn’t seen Derek or heard of him in hours, and he hasn’t been away from him for so long in nine months. They’re always revolving around each other, always in either earshot or eyeshot, and in rare cases when they can’t immediately lay hands on each other they have their phones. Stiles scratches around his handcuff again. They haven’t found the safety pin that’s in the back pocket of his pants. He’s developed a habit of it—you never know when you may need it—and his lock picking skills have been awesome even before he left with Derek. It’s so, so tempting to get the safety pin out and pick the lock of the stupid cuff but now is not the time. He wouldn’t get far before they caught him again.

It’s been another couple of hours—that’s what Stiles assumes at least, his sense of time has gone to shit—when Jones pays him a visit again. He unlocks the cuff that’s binding Stiles to the table only to handcuff Stiles’ hands again behind his back. Stiles feels drowsy but his brain snaps back almost immediately, leaving him wondering what the hell is going on as Jones guides him out of the interrogation room.

“What are you doing? Where are we going?” Stiles can’t help but feel anxious again.

“We’re getting you to a secure location,” Jones answers automatically. His tone and the way he replies immediately tell Stiles that there’s more to that. He turns it over in his head, searching frantically for an explanation when—of course. Derek. They want to lure Derek out. Stiles goes hot and cold all over. 

“The car is right outside,” a woman says, the other Marshal. She’s painfully beautiful, with reddish hair, pouty red lips and big green eyes, and Stiles would crush hard if he wasn’t so fixated on Derek. Somehow, she manages to look bored and authoritative. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, and Stiles tries not to squirm under the scrutiny of her look.

“Get him in,” Jones orders. The woman shoots him a dirty look. Stiles gets the feeling she doesn’t like to be told what to do. She grabs Stiles’ biceps and pushes him forward. Jones was gentle compared to her.

It’s pitch black outside and surprisingly cool. Stiles shivers involuntarily.

“Easy on the goods,” he protests while she drags him along and towards a squad car that parks in front of the—police station, where they’ve held him in. “You know, he won’t come out to get me, especially not when I look like I’ve been minced.”

She bestows him with a glare that has him withering, and throws open the door to the back seat before she pushes Stiles inside. Stiles tries to settle at least a little comfortably but having his hands cuffed behind his back makes it pretty damn difficult. He flinches when she reaches out and cups his chin, turning his head so Stiles has to look at her.

Her grin is dangerous. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t come for you, lover boy,” she taunts, and pats his cheek with a little too much force; it’s not painful but it’s far from pleasant too. After that, she nothing but throws the door shut. Stiles shudders as an icy cold feeling runs through his body. Through the window he can see Jones twirling a dart filled with a clear liquid between his fingers. Stiles feels the blood drain from his face, and he has to suck in a deep breath.

“It won’t work,” Stiles tells Jones when he gets into the car. His partner climbs into a dark green BMW. Jones looks at him through the rear-view mirror.

“How often do you have to tell yourself that until you believe it?” Jones retorts, and his eyes crinkle around the corners. Stiles bites his tongue. He doesn’t believe it, of course he doesn’t believe, because Derek would never abandon him, like Stiles would never abandon Derek.

Stiles is edgy when Jones manoeuvres the car out of the parking lot and drives off.

He hopes, begs, prays that Derek won’t show, and of course that’s when he catches sight of a fast moving figure out of the corner of his eye. It’s too dark to make out any details but Stiles has seen Derek’s full wolf form often enough to recognize it, and besides, there’s nothing and no one else who could keep up with the speed of the car. Stiles sees the flash of red eyes.

And suddenly there’s a cat on the street right in front of the car. Jones hits the brakes hard, and Stiles hits his head on the shotgun seat. The car swerves lightly before coming to a halt. Stiles is dazed, his head spins from the impact. Jones swears loudly as he unbuckles and grabs for his gun, getting out of the car.

Stiles hears the growling, loud and clear but it doesn’t sound like it’s very close. Jones has his weapon raised and a phone at his ear. Stiles can’t make out what he’s saying but he bets Jones is talking to his partner. He can’t see the BMW when he turns around to look. She took another way, apparently, maybe to come in from two different paths. Jones ends the call and stuffs the phone into his pocket. The sound of Jones loading his gun echoes loudly in Stiles’ ears.

Stiles still feels dizzy but figures this is his best shot. He fumbles for the safety pin in his back pocket, trying to move as little as possible as not to attract Jones’ attention. Jones doesn’t wander off. Obviously, he waits for back up, and either he doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone or he’s just scared to face a werewolf by himself. Another one of Derek’s growls reverberates through the street. Stiles shoves the pointy end of the pin into the lock and picks it in no time.

That’s when he makes out the sirens of police cars coming nearer. It’s now or never.

Stiles opens the door as quietly as possible and slips out, crouching down and edging towards the rear end of the cruiser. Derek growls again, closer this time but from another side, the one that’s facing away from Stiles. He smiles to himself. There’s this spark of hope igniting somewhere deep inside of him but he doesn’t dare to latch onto it. 

He peers over to Jones who’s looking the other way now. Drawing in a deep breath, Stiles pushes off the ground and _bolts_. He runs into the first dark alley he sees, swallowed by the shadows and sprints without turning to look over his shoulder. The sirens get louder around him. He’s sure the streets will crawl with police soon.

Ahead of him the alley ends and he recognizes the street as the one that leads back to the motel. Derek won’t be there anymore but he hopes he’ll run into him there—or somewhere, he doesn’t even care.

Before he can round the corner a hand slams painfully into his sternum and pushes him back into the dark alley. Gasping for air Stiles finds himself facing Jones’ partner. Her eyes are hard, so is the press of her hand against his chest. She holds him down, pushing him against a wall, and when Stiles tries to wriggle his way out of her grasp, she twists his arm vigorously. Stiles yelps in pain as she pushes him down on his knees.

“Stay down,” she hisses and shoves him into a corner, hovering dangerously over him. Stiles’ brain is firing in almost every direction as he tries to piece together what’s happening. She still has his arm in her iron grip and holding him down but she’s not handcuffing him. A couple of squad cars rush down the street he almost stepped on. Her phone rings.

“What?” She barks into the speaker. “What do you mean, you’ve lost him? You have got to be kidding me.”

Stiles has a hard time processing.

“Hale’s g—” She curses crossly into the phone. “They’re on their way.” What is this crazy woman talking about? “No, Jones, I mean _they are literally on their way_. They just drove by me. They’re heading southwest, yeah, down Maple Street.” What the hell is going on? “I’m on my way.”

She hangs up and yanks on Stiles’ arm. “Get up.”

“What—”

“Derek is already waiting for you,” she cuts him off and urges him on. They quickly cross the street and slip into another dark sideway. “Follow the alley straight through, he’s on the other side. Tell him to go northeast. Don’t stop until you’re at least one state over.”

She pushes him again.

“I don’t—”

“Go,” she orders urgently and pushes a gun into his hand. “Take it and go. Now.” 

Stiles’ brain refuses to catch up, and he doesn’t trust her, she’s a US Marshal, she could be fucking with him. He’s confused and sceptical, and the gun in his hand is a new, unfamiliar weight. It’s a ploy to catch him with a firearm in his hand, and frame for something he didn’t do. She rolls her eyes but Stiles sees it for what it is this time: desperation and impatience.

“Look, I don’t have time to explain,” she says quickly, pushing Stiles towards the alley again. “ _You_ don’t have much time.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest when Derek’s growling echoes through the dark sidewalk, close and promising, and it’s coming from where she is pointing him to. She nudges him again. His brain screams in protest but his legs carry him out of their own volition towards Derek.

When he reaches the other end of the alley he sees Derek standing by the Camaro, eyes glowing red and impatiently drumming his fingers on the roof of the car. Stiles is hit by a wave of relief and a sense of security. Derek is getting into the driver’s side when Stiles reaches the car and clambers into the passenger’s seat.

Derek reaches out and cups his neck, draws him in and kisses him, hard, desperate, relieved. And then they’re driving, racing through the almost empty streets and out of the town, and Derek reaches for Stiles’ hand, gripping it tightly and not letting go. 

***

“So,” Stiles’ dad says, putting down his fork after having cleared his plate. “How come you’re spending more time at home again than at the facility?”

Stiles almost bites down too hard on his own fork. Of course his dad has noticed. Stiles has just hoped he wouldn’t ask but, well, here he is now, trying to come up with an explanation that doesn’t involve the words ‘Derek’ and ‘fucking dickhead’. His father arches his eyebrows expectantly.

Stiles squirms a little. He’s used to his dad’s scrutinizing looks, his I’m The Sheriff Don’t Even Think About Trying To Hide It From Me Glare, and, seriously, he should be able to withstand it without so much as batting an eye. Stiles loathes lying to his father, and he doesn’t do it as long as Scott’s or his life (meeting and gaming privileges, that is) depend on it.

He sighs deeply, and explains, “Derek is a spectacular dickhead, and I think he’s plotting my murder.” Well, so much about not using ‘Derek’ and ‘dickhead’.

“And why would he do that?” his dad asks sceptically and leans back in his chair.

Stiles furrows his brows. ‘Spectacular dickhead’ seems like enough of a reason to him. His father doesn’t agree, obviously. Stiles doesn’t actually know how to answer that, so he just lightly scrapes the tips of the fork over his plate.

“What did you do?”

Stiles’ head snaps up to glower at his dad. “What makes you think _I_ did something?”

His father looks like he doesn’t really want to answer that, and by that Stiles knows he wouldn’t like the reply anyway.

He huffs indignantly and shrugs. “He said he only took on training Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Scott probably too, because of power. They make him stronger.”

His dad creases his forehead and his features basically say, _Duh_. “That’s basic knowledge, Stiles. They are stronger in numbers, and the bigger the pack the stronger its members, not only the Alpha.”

“I know.” He totally didn’t. Stiles was too busy trying to figure out how to help Scott that he didn’t pay much attention to pack dynamics. He refuses to acknowledge the bitter burning of shame that rises up inside of him.

“Then what’s the problem?” his father presses. Stiles sags in his chair, eyes trained on his fork.

“He was being a total prick about it,” he answers eventually. His dad doesn’t even comment on the insults anymore. “I mean, really, world’s greatest douchebag. I said he wasn’t the right person to be Alpha. Seriously, though.”

When he looks up again, his dad stares at him like he’s seen a ghost. His expression grows into a mix of aggravation and exasperation, although he remains quiet. Stiles starts feeling uneasy as the silence between them stretches and his dad shakes his head.

“What?” Stiles inquires finally.

“Are those the words you used?” his dad asks. The scrutiny makes Stiles want to get up and run up into his room. “That he wasn’t the right person to be an Alpha?”

“Uh,” Stiles replies intelligently. “Yeah.”

Stiles’ father heaves out a long-suffering sigh and rubs at his temples. “Derek only became the Alpha, because his sister died. He wasn’t meant to be.”

Stiles feels his jaw drop. A million thoughts race through his head and something icy keeps jabbing him in the ribs. He’s kind of surprised, a little, by the sudden and almost painful pang of guilt that washes over him. Recalling the short moment in which Derek’s face faltered, Stiles is hit by the realization why: he basically rubbed salt into a wound he didn’t even know existed.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks weakly. “How do you even know that?”

“Do you remember how you dragged Scott with you into the woods to look for half of a dead body?” his dad asks but then shakes his head and adds, “Why do I even ask? Of course you do.”

Stiles is affronted that his dad accuses him of dragging Scott along. It’s not like Scott said no. He totally could have said no.

“So?” Stiles prompts impatiently.

“Well. The victim was Laura Hale. Derek’s sister,” his father continues. Stiles’ head starts to spin. “After their family died in that fire she became the Alpha, and she and Derek left. I don’t know why she was back in Beacon Hills at that time but her death made Derek not only Alpha but it also made him the only remaining member of the Hale family. His pack is probably the closest to family he has now, and from what I’ve heard he’s not a…dickhead.”

Stiles tries to fight back the hollow feeling that wraps itself around him. His dad is right, of course he remembers that night a couple of years ago when he heard that joggers had found half of a dead body in the Preserve, and he went into the forest with Scott to find the other half. They hadn’t found it but then again, Stiles didn’t even know until now that the BHPD had solved the case.

“What happened to her?” Stiles asks quietly, staring at his hands.

His dad sighs again. He looks tired and sad when he says, “We never found out. Derek buried her on the property of the old Hale house.”

“Didn’t he want to know?”

“There weren’t any leads, Stiles, and I still don’t even know why she came back here in the first place. I’m sure he wanted to know, and still wants to. But there was nothing there to begin with,” Stiles’ father answers. His voice is tinged with empathy. He runs a hand through his hair and looks at Stiles. “I think Laura’s death is connected to the fire, though.”

Stiles perks up at that. “What makes you think that?”

His dad rubs a hand over his mouth and replies, “It feels wrong,” with a little helpless shrug. He goes on, “First the fire that kills the majority of the family, and then only a couple of years later one of the two survivors dies under mysterious circumstances. That just irks me. I think there’s more to the whole story.”

“Wait, whoa, wait—are you saying that you think whoever killed Laura is also responsible for the house burning down?” Stiles throws in, sitting straight and playing it through in his head. “I thought the fire was an accident.”

Stiles’ father shakes his head again. “We found traces of arson, and—” he hesitates as if unsure whether to tell Stiles about all of the confidential details of the case but then he just continues, “All of the Hales who died in the fire were in the basement of the house. That is a little too systematic to be a coincidence for my taste. There was also a molten deadbolt lock on the door to the basement that looked strangely out of place.”

Stiles tries to wrap his head around why someone would do something like this. Who was sick enough to kill a whole family, innocent people? He remembers how his dad said that there were children among the victims, and everything in him clenches painfully. Acrid guilt burns a path through him again, leaving him feeling ashamed and sorry for what he said to Derek. Although, Derek didn’t even argue against Stiles, he didn’t say anything to correct Stiles’ assumptions of him; instead he didn’t go out of his way to humiliate Stiles himself. Stiles is left wondering why Derek never really defended himself.

It takes Stiles a couple of days to muster up the courage to talk to Derek and apologize but when their eyes meet when Stiles walks into the common room of the facility, his willingness leaves him again. Or rather withers under Derek’s murderous glare and the way he manages to express that Stiles is the bane of his existence with only his body language.

When Derek leaves the room Stiles slumps into an armchair. That didn’t go very well. In fact, Stiles didn’t even try, and he really is pulling that I’m-not-afraid-of-you-attitude off. Only not so much. His self-preservation instinct chose a seriously inconvenient moment to kick in. He huffs out a sigh and stretches out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. Scott eyes him with a frown while Erica and Isaac sit in front of the TV playing a weird-ass racing game, and Erica keeps throwing the most creative curses at Isaac. Boyd is sitting at the huge dining table and reads a book, and he looks like he’s tuned out everything around him.

“What’s going on with you and Derek?” Scott asks quietly. He probably forgot that it’s no use what with all the super-hearing werewolves around. Stiles feels uneasy, although he’s not really surprised that Scott picked up on the icy air whenever Stiles and Derek are in a room together.

“Nothing,” Stiles answers automatically but Scott only quirks his eyebrows at him incredulously in his Dude-don’t-you-dare-hiding-stuff-from-me expression. Stiles sighs shortly. He probably won’t be able to talk to Scott without being overheard for another while, not until Scott can leave the facility, so Stiles figures he can as well get it over with; Boyd, Isaac and Erica listening in be damned.

“I said some…things,” Stiles replies in a hushed whisper. It’s stupid but he can’t help but drop his voice. “Some…me—look, I didn’t know. He was being a jackass and I got pissed and we both said some really awful things.”

“Oh,” Scott comments a little helplessly. He pats Stiles shoulder awkwardly, asking, “Do you want me to deliver a message to him or something? Just—no insults please, I don’t want to end up with broken bones.”

Stiles cracks a smile at that, and Scott reciprocates it. “No, buddy, it’s okay. I guess he hates me for life now, no matter what I say or do.”

Erica snorts exaggeratedly, eyes firm on the screen, but it’s clear anyway that she’s listened to every word. Stiles rolls his eyes. He turns around to her.

He suggests, “You could pass on a message to him, though,” and flashes a sweet smile at her. Erica flicks a blonde lock over her shoulder.

“You’re hilarious,” she scoffs gleefully. “Man up, Stiles.”

Scott grabs Stiles’ elbow and leads him out of the room and into his bedroom. They leave the door open.

“He’s been smelling weird those last couple of days,” Scott confesses as he sits on the bed, and Stiles joins him, throwing a confused look at his best friend.

“Are you seriously sniffing Derek?” Stiles teases, trying to ignore the twist in his gut. Scott makes a face at him.

“The air around him smells bitter.” Scott doesn’t take the distraction. “Like he’s—I don’t know, like he’s…” he trails off, visibly frustrated about his lack of words. “Denial. It smells like denial.”

“I wasn’t aware denial has a smell,” Stiles points out dryly, and Scott shoves at his shoulder with normal, human strength. Stiles doesn’t voice his surprise at that. Instead, he scowls at his best friend and tries to decipher what in the hell Scott’s statement is supposed to mean.

“Well, it’s more like he’s denying himself something,” Scott elaborates quickly. Stiles snickers meanly. This is really getting ridiculous.

“How do you even know that?” he asks sceptical, and before Scott throws in his obligatory, _I’m a werewolf, duh_ , Stiles hurries to add, “How do you know what denial smells like? Or what it smells like when he’s denying himself something? For all you know it’s just how he smells like to a human.”

Scott scrunches up his nose. “I can’t explain it, Stiles, really, I wish I could but…I don’t even know myself how it works.”

“Maybe you’re fantasizing,” Stiles remarks wryly. “I don’t believe sniffing feelings is an actual thing.”

Scott rolls his eyes hard and for a moment there, Stiles worries he would strain his optic nerves but then he remembers Scott probably wouldn’t even notice. Hello, freaky werewolf healing abilities.

“Dude, whatever, all I’m saying is that Derek gives off some weird sm—vibe,” Scott says.

“If by weird you mean homicidal, I agree,” Stiles retorts. Scott looks at him like he thinks Stiles has lost his mind. He jabs a finger into Stiles’ ribs, and Stiles jumps at the pain, pressing both hands to his side.

Scott asks, “You want to know what you smell like?” and he doesn’t wait for an answer when he says, “Like guilt. You smell like guilt.”

Stiles gapes widely at him. Scott smirks smugly, having taken Stiles’ surprised face obviously as confirmation. It’s infuriating, really, and Stiles narrows his eyes at his best friend.

“I won’t believe you about the feeling sniffing until you can explain to me how it works,” he says, and now it’s his turn to grin self-satisfied, because, well, he can.

Scott shrugs him off, though. “I’ll explain the feeling sniffing to you the day you explain to me how it’s possible that werewolves exist.”

Stiles rolls his eyes hard. Seriously. “Mutation and evolution,” he answers immediately.

Scott scoffs, “You want all the detailed explanations, so I want all the detailed explanations too.”

Stiles glowers at him but Scott seems pretty much unimpressed, flashing him a confident smile. Erica appears in the doorway, her hands fanned over her hips. She quirks her lips, amused, and cocks an eyebrow. It’s terrifying how much she resembles Derek with that little gesture.

“Are you done with the gossiping?” she asks smirking disgustingly cheekily. Stiles flings a pillow at her and she dodges it, laughing loudly as she stalks away again, and shouts, “Scott’s right about the scents by the way.”

Stiles grits his teeth and graciously ignores Scott’s stupid preening.

He doesn’t apologize to Derek. Almost another month of icy tension passes, and Scott becomes better and better at controlling himself, now that they’ve figured out that Stiles is, in fact, his anchor. It really does get easier for him after that, although he’s still not safe enough to stay out on the full moon.

Stiles lurks around the cells in the basement of the facility where Scott is holed up for the full moon. Erica, Isaac and Boyd are down there with him, not locking themselves up like Scott does but they each walk in and out of cells. They do have control over themselves but the pull of the moon is still rather strong, and they stay down in the basement overnight. Derek hasn’t even been around most of the day, which is kind of surprising to Stiles as he’s thought out of everyone it would be Derek who would stick around.

Boyd shrugs and huffs, “He’s our Alpha, not our babysitter.”

 _Isn’t it mostly the same?_ Stiles doesn’t ask.

He leaves early in the afternoon. It’s almost March, and Stiles holds his nose up in the air, feeling the mild weather. Stiles misses this, misses the vivid green of spring and the brightness of summer. Winter always feels too long.

He gets into his jeep and drives around aimlessly. His dad isn’t home from work, Scott was already getting a little jittery, and he has nothing better to do. It’s how he ends up in the forest, in front of the burnt remains of the Hale house.

The ruin looms over him darkly, and it’s like the place is chillier than every other place. Stiles doesn’t know what the house looked like before the fire; he’s never been there before. It’s eerily quiet. Stiles can feel goose bumps rise on his arms. He remembers how his dad had been called to the house over the years when teenagers dared each other to go in at night, telling each other horror stories about werewolf ghosts, and stumbled through the remnants of Derek’s childhood home where so many people died. The disrespect for the tragedy that happened here makes Stiles feel hollow.

He walks around to the side. There’s a bright purple flower a little off the burnt down wall of the house. Stiles stops to look at it, confused as to why there is wolfsbane growing there. And wolfsbane it is, he’s looked through pictures of the flower, of the plant, and read about its effects on werewolves.

Slowly, he walks closer. The plant isn’t a new one; it is grown and blooms all over, spreading over the ground in a weird—pattern. It’s a pattern, Stiles realizes, although he can’t tell what it’s supposed to depict. He goes down on his haunches, touching the petals of a flower gently, frowning. Deliberately, he casts a look around him but this is the only spot where the wolfsbane grows. He tosses and turns it around in his head trying to come up with an explanation. Something nags at his mind the whole time.

Stiles looks down at the flowers. He plucks a blossom and twists it between his fingers, making it spin in a whirl of purple. Stiles remembers reading something about burials involving wolfsbane, an old tradition, something that isn’t actually common anymore. Dad said Derek had buried Laura, and Stiles didn’t question it. 

It’s a grave, he realizes with a start, jumping to his feet. It’s a grave. Laura’s grave.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles whips around and almost stumbles over his own feet. Derek is walking over to where he’s standing, eyebrows drawn together into a dismissive scowl, his mouth a taut line, hostile all around. He’s looking exactly like all the times when they saw each other during the last month. Stiles tries not to wince at Derek’s gruff mood.

“Uh, nothing, dude, really,” Stiles answers as Derek glances at the blossom in his hand. “I just—I drove around town a little and somehow I ended up here.”

Derek looks everything but convinced. Stiles makes a face. They haven’t really spoken to each other since their fight in the garden, and Stiles hasn’t found the courage again to apologize to Derek. He has no illusions, though, Derek would probably glare at him until Stiles just disappeared and never talked to him again.

Derek comes to stand beside him. He looks wary and alert, seems tense and uneasy.

“Uh,” Stiles says again as the silence between them goes on and on and Derek regards him with this scrutinizing look that makes Stiles squirm uncomfortably. “You buried Laura here, didn’t you?”

Derek seems surprised for a moment. Slowly, he drags his eyes away and to the wolfsbane. He doesn’t answer, and Stiles thinks he’s overstepped another line.

Finally, Derek answers quietly, “Yes,” and exhales deeply. He asks, “How did you know?” looking back at Stiles, hostility mostly gone from his face and body language.

Stiles shrugs a little. “It was my best guess,” he replies honestly, glances at Derek openly. “I’m sorry.”

Derek’s face does this thing where it contorts into a sour expression again. “I don’t need your pity,” he says crossly. Stiles can feel anger rising inside of him, again, but he breathes in deeply and tries to calm himself. He doesn’t want to pick another fight.

“I don’t pity you,” he counters before adding, “Well, yes, I do,” and Derek looks close to snapping again so Stiles hurriedly continues, “It’s not about pity, dude. I’m sorry for—I was a dick to you, and I’m sorry, okay?”

He hates it. Stiles hates apologizing, it always makes him burn with shame for his mistakes. It’s hard accepting that he’s been wrong but admitting to it is better than being a stubborn little shit. The nagging voice in his head—the one that tells him Derek’s been just as much of a jackass—goes unheard, though. This isn’t about Stiles.

Derek is staring at him with this look on his face like he’s expecting Stiles to burst out laughing and yelling, “I’m kidding!” Like he can’t actually believe Stiles has apologized and means it. Stiles shifts from one foot to another and shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. The silence is getting uncomfortable again.

“Well. Good thing we’ve talked about it,” Stiles eventually says awkwardly and waves around in a general motion. “I’m…gonna go now.”

“Thank you,” Derek says so quietly Stiles almost misses it. Derek doesn’t look at him; his eyes are roaming over the façade of his old home. He nods once and sees how Derek’s eyes flicker to him.

“It’s anger,” Derek confesses then. Stiles can’t place the look on his face.

“What?”

“My anchor,” Derek clarifies. “It’s anger.”

***

Feeling Derek’s hand under his fingers is good, it anchors him, but Stiles can’t relax into it, can’t shake the anxiety. He keeps glancing into the side-view mirrors or back over his shoulder, and Derek would squeeze his hand a little every time.

“Who was that?” he asks eventually. Stiles still has the gun in his free hand, the one he’s been given by the rogue Marshal lady. Does handing Stiles a gun and helping him and Derek escape qualify as rogue? He thinks so.

“Lydia Martin,” Derek answers evenly. “She and Laura were...close.”

“Oh,” Stiles says quietly. “She’s…intense.”

Derek smirks a little and casts a quick glance at Stiles. “She is. It was her idea to drive out with you. After they got to you she found me, and she promised to keep you—to make sure nothing happens to you.”

“Yeah?” Stiles shudders at the memory of her patting his cheek. She didn’t come off as very caring at that moment but he figures she had to play her Marshal role in order to get through with her plan without raising suspicions. He looks at the gun again. “What I am supposed to do with this?”

“Protect yourself,” Derek suggests. Stiles snorts as he tests the weight of the weapon in his hand. Derek shoots him a look.

“Guns aren’t for protection, Derek,” Stiles retorts. “Guns _kill_ people.”

“People kill people,” Derek says a little stoically, frowning at the windshield. Stiles rolls his eyes. He can’t believe they’re discussing the use of firearms now.

“I can’t believe we’re talking about this. I am aware that people kill people but the most common way is to use a gun, and I am not going to kill anyone. It’s not for protection,” Stiles points out, an echo of what his dad has taught him from the very beginning and what he has come to believe himself. Derek opens his mouth to protest, and Stiles cuts him off, “No. Don’t pull this bullshit on me. I know you want me safe but this isn’t the way to do it.”

Derek frowns even harder now but then he sighs deeply. “I don’t—I know. I’m not telling you to kill someone.”

Stiles squeezes his hand and quickly says, “I know that. I do.”

“Just…keep it,” Derek pleads quietly. “It’ll—it—”

 _It helps me sleep at night_ , Derek doesn’t need to say. Stiles can tell, he knows, he always has, because despite his attitude towards firearms Stiles felt a sick sense of safety after he found out where his dad stored the gun at home. Knowing where it was if—something happened. He has never used it, never even touched it, and never opened the drawer again after the first time he stumbled upon it.

He makes sure that the safety’s on before he puts it in the glove box.

Stiles stays awake until morning, and Derek doesn’t stop driving. They pause eventually to get breakfast and coffee since neither of them really got to eat the previous day. It’s a short break; Derek eats while driving, and Stiles can’t really enjoy the food, he’s so hungry he just stuffs it into his mouth. Derek looks vaguely amused as he takes a sip from his coffee.

After the initial rush of adrenaline and the following vigilance and anxiety have worn off, Stiles feels exhausted. Eventually, he drifts to sleep, with his temple resting against the window and the sun steadily rising. Right before he’s out cold he registers how Derek gently brushes the back of his fingers over his cheek.

Stiles drifts in and out of sleep for the rest of the day, and he spends the next half awake, half asleep. Derek only makes tiny stops for pee breaks, mostly somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and they get food at drive-ins. It’s boring and monotonous, Stiles feels tired and sleepy, and he just wants to curl into a ball and hibernate. Derek is silent and unyielding, going and going down highways and roads, through towns and villages, endless, steadfast, stubborn. 

When Stiles really comes to it’s almost dark outside, and they’re parked in front of a motel. Stiles rubs at his eyes and yawns while Derek reaches for his wallet.

“Be right back,” he says and leans forward to press a soft kiss against Stiles’ lips.

Stiles feels drowsy and stiff all over. He doesn’t know where they are and how much time has passed since they got away. Slowly, he gets out of the Camaro and stretches, raising his arms over his head. He feels the delicious pull through his whole body. The air is cool around him, chilly even, but he inhales it deeply. Stiles is surprised by how drained he feels even though he hasn’t done much and spent more time dozing than being actually awake. It’s not fair given that Derek again went days without sleep, and Stiles isn’t even sure how long exactly this time.

They get their stuff out of the car when Derek comes back, and go to their room. Stiles is mildly astonished at how neat and comfortable it looks, and Derek smiles at him, small and intimate. It’s nice that he doesn’t have to argue about Derek catching some shuteye for a change. They both get out of their clothes and fall into bed, curled around each other, and Stiles can feel himself relax, let go and get rid of all the tension that kept him rigid for the past few days.

Stiles wakes up to the mouth-watering smell of pastries, and there’s the delicious scent of fresh coffee too. He’s undecided on whether to open his eyes and inspect where this all comes from, or just succumb to sleep again wrapped in Derek’s comforting warmth. Derek shifts slightly, and the next moment Stiles feels him trailing his fingers along the line of Stiles nose and down to his lips. Blearily, Stiles opens his eyes, blinking into the warm, dimmed light of the room.

Derek is right there, his face only a few inches away from Stiles’ and he smiles easily. “Happy birthday.”

Stiles blinks a couple of time, confused and still a tiny bit drowsy. _Birthday_ , it echoes faintly in his head. He forgot what with the running and Marshals and exhaustion. He forgot it’s his birthday but still…here he is in bed with Derek—who didn’t forget. Stiles lifts his head to look around the room. He spots the table decked with breakfast goodies, and groans rapturously.

“You’ll get your present later,” Derek says while he runs his fingertips up the skin over Stiles’ ribs. Stiles smirks at him, turning a little so Derek’s hand splays out over his stomach.

“Might as well bring the sex forward so I don’t have to wait for it until tonight,” Stiles replies, stretching comfortable. He watches how Derek’s eyes lazily drag over his neck to his chest and down to his crotch. His eyes snap back to Stiles’ face then and he scowls lightly.

“You’re pretty shallow,” Derek points out without heat, leaning forward and kissing Stiles’ forehead. Stiles presses closer to him, insinuating one knee between Derek’s legs, revelling in the heat of Derek’s body and the feel of skin on skin. Yet, Derek doesn’t respond to it, he just keeps watching Stiles intently, with a teasing hint in his eyes. “Who says my present to you is sex?”

“What else would it be?” Stiles counters and pushes at Derek’s shoulder until he flops onto his back and Stiles is on top. He leans down and starts peppering Derek’s jaw with kisses, wandering down to his throat and collarbone.

“A rabbit I caught for you,” Derek deadpans. Stiles sits up, hands fanned out over Derek’s chest, and glowers at him.

Derek shrugs. “It’s a fat rabbit, and I really did go out of my way to find this one.” 

Stiles makes a face.

“What? Would you rather have a deer?”

Stiles glares at him but Derek is completely unconcerned. “I think they’re out of mountain lion, though, so I can’t serve with that.”

Stiles keeps staring at him until he buries his face in Derek’s shoulder and groans in exasperation. So much for delicious morning sex on his birthday. It’s frustrating, really. Derek seems to enjoy this way too much. He shouldn’t, seriously, it’s Stiles birthday, that’s not fair.

“Your sense of humour is _abysmal_ , and I hate you.”

Derek chuckles lightly as he runs his fingers down Stiles’ vertebra. “You’re rubbing off on me .”

Stiles takes it as an invitation and drags his ass over Derek’s crotch as he props himself up on Derek again. Derek goes still under him. His eyes darken a little, and he grips Stiles’ hips, holding him in place so he can’t move anymore.

“Learn the difference between figuratively and literally,” Derek says hoarsely.

“It’s not my fault if you talk innuendo with me,” Stiles replies innocently, wriggling sideways and smiling slyly when Derek gasps softly. He leans down again to mouth along Derek’s collarbone, licks over the warm skin and gently bites down. Derek’s hips buck up into him and Stiles grinds down.

Derek chuckles again and grabs Stiles’ ass with both of his hands. Stiles continues to bite and lick and suck on his collarbone until Derek is almost shaking under him. It’s not the sexy falling apart shaking but rather barely contained laughter. He sits up to glower at Derek some more—because seriously, he wants sexy times to happen and Derek laughing at him isn’t exactly how he pictured it going.

“This isn’t the proper way to react when I’m on my way to make you feel spectacular,” Stiles tells him a little crossly. Derek is smirking at him, disgustingly unimpressed. “You couldn’t wait to get all over that,” Stiles gestures at himself, “a couple of days ago. What now? I want birthday morning sex, is that too much to ask for?”

Derek downright laughs in his face and Stiles slumps a little, pouting.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, chuckling lightly.

“Pffft,” Stiles huffs out, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and stares down at him. Derek sits up and cups Stiles’ face with both of his hands, running his fingers over his jaw.

“How about you shave first?” he suggests. Stiles runs a hand over his face, feeling the rough scruff on his chin and sides. He didn’t even realize until now, didn’t think about it that it’s been a few days since he shaved last. It’s new. Stiles hasn’t let it grow out so much, like, ever.

“You don’t like it” he states haughtily, pushing Derek’s hands out of the way to feel up his own face and the unfamiliar stubble. It’s weird but it’s also kind of awesome. Derek wraps his fingers around Stiles’ wrists and pulls his hands off, replacing them with his lips and mouths along Stiles’ scruffy jawline.

“I do,” Derek disagrees and scrapes his teeth gingerly over the hinge of his jaw. “It’s sexy but it’s also very…distracting.”

Stiles tips his head back to let Derek mouth at his throat as he hums his contentment. Derek places a kiss at the hollow of Stiles’ throat and withdraws then.

“And I don’t want all of this stuff to get cold,” he adds, gesturing towards the table as Stiles looks at him again. Stiles sighs a little disappointed but Derek catches his lips, kisses him, deep and hot and dirty, and whispers, “We can have morning sex after breakfast.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Stiles promises before he scrambles off of Derek and the bed.

They end up in the bathroom together. Derek sits on the edge of the bathtub (the bathroom has a bathtub, that’s a fucking luxury for a motel, Stiles guesses), and brushes his teeth while Stiles positions himself in front of the mirror and starts shaving. The stubble does not only feel unfamiliar, it looks weird too. Like he hasn’t grown into having facial hair yet. He certainly can’t pull it off the way Derek does.

It feels strangely domestic: being together in the bathroom with Derek simply brushing his teeth and Stiles shaving, and it’s so close to normalcy that something clenches painfully in his chest for a second.

They have delicious breakfast and even better sex after, and Stiles thinks his twenty-first birthday couldn’t be better, all things considered. Stiles is happy and sated with Derek lying next to him, breathing hard. He tries to shake a sneaky feeling of anxiety that crawls up his gut for last time he felt this good he ran into a couple of Marshals. But he wills it down, it’s his birthday, they drove non-stop for days, it’s going to be fine.

They go take a shower and it ends with Derek fucking Stiles standing up in the bathtub, pressing him against the cold tiles, and Stiles can’t help the greedy, shameless noises that escape his mouth. It’s devastatingly hot and hard and breathtaking. After that they need another shower. Stiles can’t keep his hands off Derek, though, and Derek’s fingers roam his body too. However, it’s innocent, comforting, sweet, and Stiles scatters feathery kisses over Derek’s throat and shoulders and collarbones, and lets Derek catch the tiny waterfalls running down his neck with his tongue.

Stiles coaxes Derek into driving into the scenery, going out for a walk, enjoying themselves. It’s been so long since they have done that, a day only to themselves. The day is warm, sunny, and the landscape is actually beautiful. The trees are all shades of spring green, and Stiles loves this, loves spring, loves the way it raises his spirits.

He tries not to think about his dad and how he sure as hell remembers that today is Stiles’ birthday, his twenty-first, the big day, and how they would be drinking beer together, for the first time. He tries not think about Scott who would smile widely at him and clap him on the shoulder and congratulate him, say, _Let’s go do something stupid we haven’t done since we were children_. He refuses to think about the cake Ms McCall used to bake for him, or how Erica gave him a huge knotted dildo with a silken red ribbon around it last year (because he asked her about knots, and yes, it was a mistake, and no, werewolves don’t have knots, _Oh, Stiles, is there a secret kink you want to tell me about?_ ), and how everyone looked embarrassed and awkward and Stiles turned an angry shade of red. They all laughed about it exuberantly not five minutes later.

Derek turns into his wolf form and chases him down a sandy path over a green field, and Stiles is breathless by the time Derek stops holding back and tackles him to the ground. He laughs and laughs and laughs, until his lungs burn and his stomach aches, and Derek rests his muzzle on Stiles’ chest. Stiles strokes his fingers through Derek’s charcoal coloured fur, over his ribs and his back, and Derek pushes his wet nose into Stiles’ neck. He squirms but laughs nonetheless.

“You’re so cuddly,” Stiles tells Derek, and gets a huffed out breath in return while Derek inches closer and plasters himself to Stiles’ side. He is warm and soft, and the light hairs of his coat catch the sunlight, making his fur look a shade lighter than it is.

Derek stays a wolf for a while, roaming around Stiles and exploring the landscape with his wolf senses. He’s bigger than a normal animal, his height at withers somewhere around the level of Stiles’ hip. Stiles has asked him if every werewolf can turn into a full animal, and Derek answered that though it was technically possible it was easier for Alphas. It required a lot of practice, patience and control to shift into a wolf, and even more so for Betas. Derek started training Erica, Isaac and Boyd for this but then it got cut short when they had to leave.

When Derek shifts back, dusk is already starting to settle in, and bright red and orange streaks run along the sky. Derek takes Stiles out to a bar, officially, and it’s kind of exciting. Stiles would love to test out Derek’s boundaries, how much he has to drink to get drunk or tipsy at least, but it would be irresponsible, and Stiles would probably be hammered before Derek even started to feel something.

Stiles does get tipsy. He doesn’t get Derek to dance with him but Derek tries to teach him billiards at the pool table in the bar. Stiles can hardly concentrate on what Derek is telling him. The alcohol and the proximity make his head spin. He can feel Derek’s chest lean over his back, the light pressure of it and Derek’s body heat, and Stiles involuntarily jerks back when Derek stands behind him. Stiles laughs, because he doesn’t hit the cue ball even with Derek’s guidance, and Derek stealthily licks a hot stripe over the nape of his neck when Stiles drops his head. He shudders, biting back a moan, and his blood is rushing through his veins like blazing fire.

It’s late when they get back to the motel. Stiles’ head has cleared up a little but he still feels fuzzy. Derek pulls out a slim little box and gives it to him.

“Happy birthday,” he says again when they both sit down on the bed. Stiles frowns a little as he opens the box and glances inside. It contains a simple white card. The back side is blank but when he turns it around he finds a number on it, in Derek’s deliberate handwriting. For a second, Stiles has no idea what this is until he realizes it’s a phone number. Derek only nods when Stiles looks at him, so he pulls out his cell, flips it open and dials.

“Stiles?”

Stiles’ heartbeat goes frantic, beating hard against his ribs, making him feel like he’s running a marathon. His dad’s voice reverberates through his head, and suddenly he’s sober, so sober.

“Dad?” Stiles’ voice breaks, sounds hoarse and squeaky at the same time. He hears his father exhale deeply.

“Happy twenty-first birthday, son,” he says firmly, although Stiles can hear how his voice catches a little around the edges. Stiles grits his teeth, takes a deep breath through his nose and tries to stay calm.

“Thank you, Dad,” he answers. There is so much he wants to say and to ask, and he wants to apologize, and to explain but this is not the time. Hearing his father’s voice after nine months is something…else. It’s incredibly nice and soothing.

“How was your day?” his dad wants to know, and Stiles hears that he’s barely holding it together.

“It was nice,” Stiles replies truthfully. “Derek got us awesome breakfast, and then we went outside, and—it was really nice.”

“Did you try to drink Derek under the table?”

Stiles can’t keep the laugh in that tumbles out of him. It eases the weird tension, and he starts laughing so hard he topples over and sprawls out on the floor. He can hear his dad’s laughter too, and he almost forgets that they haven’t seen each other in nine months.

“I considered it but I guess I’ll have to do it some other time,” he says, wiping away the tears he’s laughed himself to. Derek is smiling down at him, gentle and warm.

“Stiles, buddy.”

Stiles almost cries out at the sound of Scott’s voice. “Scott, dude, I—”

“I know, man,” Scott says eagerly, laughing, a little shakily though. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, inhaling a deep breath.

“Happy birthday, I mean,” Scott adds. “Dude. You’re twenty one. You have to try out how much Derek has to drink in order to pass out.”

Derek rolls his eyes exaggeratedly.

“Happy birthday, loser,” Erica chimes in, and Isaac and Boyd cut in too, “Don’t dare Derek to drink with you, Stiles, you’ll die due to alcohol poisoning before seeing it having effect on him.”

Tears are stinging at the corners of his eyes, and Stiles feels strangely choked. There are all of his family and friends on the phone, people he hasn’t seen in what feels forever, and they’re congratulating him on his birthday. It’s easy, no one talks about how this is the first time in months that they’ve talked, or that they’ve heard from each other.

“Hey guys,” he says, trying to maintain a steady voice. “I—how—you have no idea who much I missed talking to you.”

“Oh, don’t get sappy, Stilinski,” Erica snorts playfully, and there’s a pause on her end. Then she quietly says, “We miss you. Both of you.”

Stiles screws his eyes shut, clenching his jaw tightly and presses a hand over his face. He shudders out a breath. No, no, he can’t lose it now; he has to keep his shit together, because if he breaks now he won’t be able to go on.

“I’m not allowed to get sappy but you are?” Stiles teases unevenly. “I sense gender discrimination.”

“Don’t say a word, son, or she’s going to mince you,” his dad warns him, clearly amused.

“Please, say a word,” Erica pleads gleefully. Isaac, Boyd and Derek groan in unison.

“Hey, I’m all for women’s equality and rights,” Stiles protests, and Erica chuckles. Her chuckle turns into a deep sigh.

“I really miss having intelligent conversations with you,” she complains. Stiles hears Scott, Isaac and Boyd mutter in the background.

They talk about Erica’s new position as the Alpha of the pack now, and how she just figured out how to turn into a full wolf; about how they all take turns making sure Stiles’ dad eats healthy, and Stiles’ father voices his protests that everyone ignores; about how Scott’s veterinarian studies are going, and about how Boyd is helping out at a garage and Isaac enrolled at the Beacon Hills College to become a kindergarten teacher.

Eventually, it’s just Stiles’ dad talking again, and Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He has no idea what to tell his dad, for the simple reason that he and Derek are running, and that there are agents on their heels. There’s no way he can tell his father about how he ran into a couple of Marshals and sat in an interrogation room for a day. It would only worry him. So, instead, he talks about the happy moments he shares with Derek, the nice things he has seen that reminded Stiles of his dad. It’s heart-breaking, and it eats away at him. He can feel the tears surfacing again, burning in the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill.

Stiles would love to keep his father on the line forever but they say their goodbyes eventually, and it rips Stiles apart from the inside.

His dad says, “Talk to you soon.”

And Stiles replies, “Definitely.”

It’s a lie, they both know it, so Stiles whispers, “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Stiles. Be safe,” his dad says, pleading, urgent. “Derek, take care.”

Stiles glances at Derek who nods shortly.

“You too.”

Stiles finger hovers over the red button of his phone but he can’t bring himself to hang up. He swallows down a choked off sob. Derek gingerly takes the cell out of his hands and flips it shut before he gathers Stiles into his arms, holding him close and pressing his nose into Stiles’ hair.

And Stiles can’t hold back anymore, tears spill from his eyes and he can’t breathe, everything hurts, he misses his dad and his friends, and he knows he probably won’t see them again soon, possibly ever. He can’t talk to them regularly, because it’s too dangerous. All of it comes crashing down around him.

Derek is there. He doesn’t say anything; he just holds Stiles and offers his support like this. Stiles doesn’t know what he would do without him, without Derek’s arms around him holding him together, keeping him from shattering into a thousand pieces, and he thinks it’s unfair, so unfair. Stiles should be the one comforting Derek. Derek’s lost everyone and now he’s being hunted, and Stiles came willingly, it was his choice.

“Thank you,” Stiles sobs out. “I’m sorry.”

Derek doesn’t answer. He takes Stiles’ face between his hands and softly brushes away Stiles’ tears with his thumbs. Tenderly, he places a kiss on his forehead, holding his lips against Stiles’ skin for a while. And when Derek tucks Stiles’ head under his chin, the feeling of breaking into a billion shards isn’t so strong anymore.

***

Derek goes back to talking to him, and there is no icy mood anymore whenever they happen to be in the same room together. It’s surprisingly easy to be around Derek, to talk to him, to watch him doing push-ups or pull-ups (he goggles at Derek together with Erica, and Stiles can’t tell what’s more awkward: ogling alone or ogling with Erica while she smirks knowingly), or even boss his Betas around when they “get lazy and annoying” (Derek’s words).

Even Stiles’ dad notices that he spends more time at the facility again and arches his eyebrows in this disgusting _Oh?_ way when Stiles says they have reconciled, apparently, like he thinks there’s something in the bush. Which there totally isn’t. Absolutely not. And if Stiles feels remarkably better now that things are cleared up again, no one has to know.

“Dude, you’re kidding me, right?” Stiles says incredulously when Derek admits that he’s never seen a Batman movie. They’re sitting in the training hall while Boyd knocks the air out of Scott and Erica flips Isaac over.

Derek scowls at him and looks like he’d like to take the words back. “It’s just—I can’t—I don’t really watch movies,” he replies defensively. “And comics have never really interested me.”

Stiles is two seconds from staging a fainting fit. “You’re so uncultured, I have no idea how you survive.”

“I’m not uncultured,” Derek scoffs under his breath. “I prefer reading. It’s not my fault that you don’t know what books are, apparently.”

Stiles stares at him, affronted, and Derek smirks, looking disgustingly handsome. For a moment, Stiles even forgets what Derek’s just said.

“Hey, I read books, dumbass, okay,” Stiles protests and flails his arms around, almost smacking Derek in the process.

“Comics don’t count as books,” Derek retorts and this time, Stiles really does smack him (he hurts himself more that he hurts Derek, but he tries not to let it show). Derek looks nothing but smug, but there’s a soft expression around the edges and Stiles has no idea what to make of it.

“What’s your favourite book then?” Stiles asks then, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Three Men in a Boat,” Derek answers immediately. Stiles narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know the book, and hasn’t heard of it, and he makes a mental note to google it as soon as he gets home.

“There are three movies,” Derek supplies helpfully. Stiles wants to punch him. “As far as I know. I’ve seen one of them and I don’t know. Doesn’t really do it for me.”

Stiles can barely keep himself from asking what does it for Derek. He bites down on his bottom lip and looks over to Scott who wrestles Boyd to the ground and grins triumphantly. Derek stays quiet but he seems content.

Stiles almost falls off his chair when he later googles Derek’s favourite book and finds out that it is a humorous novel. If he downloads the pdf-file and starts reading it, it’s no one’s but Stiles’ business. It totally isn’t because it’s Derek’s favourite book. It’s because he read the summary and found it interesting.

He cracks up only very few pages in laughs so hard that his stomach starts aching, wheezing helplessly.

A couple of days later, Stiles finds himself standing in front of the door to Derek’s apartment, chips in one hand and a stack of DVDs in the other. Derek looks vaguely surprised when he answers the door but lets Stiles in nonetheless. They watch Iron Man. By the time it’s over Derek snorts and flings a chip at Stiles’ forehead.

Scott gets restless, because Derek still wouldn’t proclaim him in control enough to let him leave the facility even when Scott’s control has improved remarkably. They get into a fight over it that ends with Derek pinning Scott to the floor, eyes glowing red and fangs bared at Stiles’ best friend. Scott struggles and fights him. Derek says that he rather takes his time to make sure that Scott is really ready. One uncontrolled shift in the public would get him locked up in the facility for probably ever. Scott stops fighting after that, even though he’s still not thrilled.

Stiles keeps turning up at Derek’s with food and movies, and at some point Erica, Isaac and Boyd join them too. They relocate the movie nights to the facility after Scott finds out about it and feels offended that he’s not being included. Derek still makes snarky comments about Stiles’ movie choices and Stiles argues right back until that one time when Boyd dryly remarks, “It’s like watching kindergarten children crush on each other.”

“Pigtail pulling for wannabe adults,” Isaac adds.

“Derek usually hates it when people make stupid comments while watching a movie,” Erica supplies. “No matter how stupid the movie.”

“Stiles _loathes_ talking during movies too,” Scott informs them.

Stiles can’t stop the flush from blooming all over his face. He sinks deeper into the cushions of the couch and jerks right back into a sitting position when he accidentally presses his thigh firmly against Derek’s in the process.

They stop arguing after that. Derek huffs every once in awhile and Stiles nudges Derek’s shoulder with his own in response.

Stiles doesn’t actually think much of it. He can’t exactly say that his newly gained…closeness with Derek isn’t fuelling his furious crush, but he’s realistic. Derek enjoys badgering Stiles as much as Stiles enjoys badgering him in return. It’s what keeps them entertained. Nothing less but nothing more either. 

It’s not until they watch the new Spiderman that Stiles starts thinking that maybe—just maybe—his hopeless crush isn’t as hopeless as he thought.

“Dude, I totally rocked that spandex suit,” Stiles says before he shoves a handful of chips into his mouth. “It fitted perfectly. Like a second skin. Man, Halloween was awesome last year.”

Derek almost chokes on his beer. Erica snickers, Boyd smirks, and Isaac is biting his bottom lip hard. Scott rolls his eyes at Stiles.

“Yeah, I remember that one dude who asked you if you wore junk and ass pads, and I swear he almost popped an instant boner when you said everything was original,” he snorts, bites down on his slice of pizza. Stiles bursts out laughing at the memory, because, yeah, that totally happened. Derek chugs down the beer as if his life depends on it until his bottle is empty.

Stiles gets up, taking the empty bottle and wanders into the kitchen to get a new beer for Derek and another bag of chips. They started storing ridiculous amount of chips in one of the higher cupboards. Stiles has to stretch a little to reach the shelf, and when he turns back around, he finds Derek staring at his—crotch now, butt seconds before, obviously. His eyes snap right up to Stiles’ face.

“Uh,” Stiles says intelligently while he tries to process what’s happening. “Beer?”

Derek grabs the new beer bottle wordlessly and heads back out into the living room with Stiles trailing behind.

It’s pure irony that Derek casts a glance over his shoulder and catches Stiles staring at his ass too. Stiles hides his embarrassment behind a toothy grin.

The couch is crammed because they all love to sit on it and Stiles finds himself squished between Erica and Derek. He’s firmly pressed against Derek’s side, absorbing the warmth he radiates, and it shouldn’t feel so achingly good.

When Stiles and Derek leave later that night—Erica, Boyd and Isaac stay at the facility with Scott, because they didn’t want to rent apartments—Derek drives Stiles home as Stiles’ jeep is at the shop for inspection.

Derek pulls into the driveway of the house. He doesn’t cut the engine of the Camaro right away, though, so Stiles unbuckles quickly. He feels edgy, not quite uncomfortable but weirdly itchy. After he caught Derek eyeing him up and he eyed up Derek himself (and got caught too), he doesn’t really know what to say.

Right before Stiles gets out, Derek clears his throat. “Do you still have the suit?”

“Huh?”

“The Spiderman suit.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s in my closet.”

“You can, uh, show me,” Derek says, licks his lips. “Sometime.”

“Sure,” Stiles finds himself saying, his voice stumbling over the words. “Whenever.”

Derek’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and the light of the dashboard casts dim shadows over his face. Stiles wants to lean over and kiss him.

“Good night,” Derek says eventually, after Stiles stares for an inappropriate amount of time at Derek’s mouth. Stiles blushes furiously and ducks out of the car.

“Good night,” he mutters before he shuts the passenger’s door and heads for the house. Derek doesn’t pull out of the driveway before Stiles is inside. Stiles walks up into his room. He has difficulties processing what just happened—or even what that evening was. His heart is rabbiting in his chest.

What does this even mean?

“So,” Stiles says a couple of days later, a little breathless. He manages to keep up with Derek surprisingly easily but that might be because Derek doesn’t run at his usual pace. Stiles decides not to dwell on it. He’s run into Derek who was on his way out for a jog, and Stiles spontaneously chose to follow him. “Hypothetically, if you would, uh, procreate, um, would the baby be a werewolf or human?”

Derek looks at him incredulously. Stiles is glad his face is already flushed from running. It’s also one thing to consult the internet about all things werewolves but he thinks it’s much more efficient to ask a born werewolf when you have the option.

“That depends,” Derek answers, and it sounds a little like, _Duh_. “Mendel’s laws.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude, that’s not an answer. Everything is about Mendel’s laws. Is it more likely that a baby is born a werewolf when one of the parents is also a born one? Or what?”

Derek heaves out a long-suffering sigh. Stiles figures this isn’t what Derek’s had in mind when he decided to go out for a run.

“The werewolf allele is recessive,” Derek explains after some consideration. “So it depends on how many werewolf alleles your partner carries in them for the baby to be a born werewolf. That said, it’s more likely that two born werewolves—”

“Get a born werewolf baby,” Stiles finishes. “But is it also possible that, I don’t know, you and a human woman would have one too?”

Stiles ignores the implication for a second and watches Derek scowl a little.

“If the woman carried werewolf alleles, it would be possible, yes,” he replies slowly. “If not, if she didn’t have werewolves in her family, chances would be basically non-existent.”

“Huh,” Stiles says thoughtfully. “I always thought the werewolf gene was dominant.”

“If it was dominant, most of the earth’s population would be werewolves at some point.”

Stiles bites his tongue before the question “So, do you want children?” can tumble out of his mouth. He’s interested to know but he figures they’re not close enough to ask Derek such kinds of questions, one that concerns him personally. Actually, there are a lot more things Stiles wants to know. Only it does not feel right to question Derek about knots and mating. He saves those for Erica.

Turns out it is a mistake to ask Erica. She arches her eyebrows at him.

“I don’t even want to know where you get your knowledge from,” she says. “No, Stiles, werewolves don’t have knots. Why? Do you want to share your kinky secrets with me?”

“How do you know? You don’t have a dick,” Stiles retorts, whacking himself around the head mentally, and flaring a bright red at her implications. Erica laughs at him. Stiles doesn’t even know why he argues with her about it or why he brought it up in the first place.

“I have first-hand experience,” she replies smugly. Stiles can’t help the way his heart drops a little at the thought that Erica might have—no. He won’t go there. 

“With Derek?”

He wants to shoot himself in the face. Stiles wishes he could just drop dead the second he realizes the question is out and he can’t take it back. What the hell is wrong with him?

Erica smirks knowingly and flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “How is it that your first thought was that I had sex with _Derek_?”

“It wasn’t.”

“You’re adorable.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Aw,” Erica grins widely. “Boyd and I were a thing a little while back, that’s how I know.”

Stiles clears his throat, deeply embarrassed. “So mating isn’t a thing either, then?”

Erica laughs again and gently pats his cheek. “We can decide to stay with the one person we love forever, Stiles. Just like any other person can. Werewolves aren’t that different from humans. And Derek is just as interested in you as you are in him.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Please, I don’t trust a person who doesn’t crush on Derek at least a little bit.”

“I’m _preeeeetty_ sure Scott never had a trace of a crush on him.”

Erica smacks the back of his head. “Stop denying it, idiot. There’s no use in pretending you aren’t into him, because everyone already knows. He’s even worse, a goner; he can’t stop gushing about you.”

“He’s not gushing about me,” Stiles mumbles. There’s no way he can score an even deeper shade of red. The thought that Derek talks about him makes his heart surge, and he’s certain that Erica can hear it.

He flees before it can get any more embarrassing and hides in Scott’s room. It takes him a while to come back down, to make his heart stop fluttering and the heat drain from his face. When Scott comes back, he starts laughing so hard he topples over, holding his stomach and laughing until tears stream down his face. Stiles considers revoking his status as best friend. Scott chokes out something that sounds a little like, “Dude, your face,” but Stiles isn’t sure. It’s hard to make out as Scott is on the verge of dying of laughter.

Scott is allowed to leave the facility at the end of May.

They’re sitting out in the garden of Scott’s house and Scott tells Stiles that there are still some formalities to be handled.

“Like what?” Stiles asks, stuffing a muffin into his mouth.

“Like choosing my Alpha,” Scott answers. “It’s basically the most important thing now.”

“Have you decided yet?”

“I don’t know, dude. Derek’s pack is awesome and I got used to them and they showed me everything, and it kind of seems natural to accept Derek, to be honest. On the other hand, I have no idea what Derek’s plans are for the future, you know, where he wants to go, what he wants to do, and I really don’t want to leave here,” Scott admits. He looks unsure, fumbling with his bottle of coke, and Stiles feels a sudden pang of dread that Scott might leave if he decides to go with Derek.

“How much time do you have until you have to decide?” Stiles asks quietly.

“Until Friday,” Scott replies. Two days then. Stiles doesn’t know what to say so they both don’t say anything anymore and sit in silence.

The next day, Stiles finds himself standing in front of Derek’s apartment again, and Derek doesn’t look surprised at all when he opens the door. Stiles paces around the living room, touches random things, runs his fingers along the edge of the desk, pulls books out of shelves and puts them back, switches on the lights and turns them back off. Derek leans against the doorway and watches him silently.

Stiles feels like he wants to say a million things but he can’t form a coherent sentence. He doesn’t even know where to start. Scott grew into the pack without actually officially being a member and Stiles knows Derek’s pack would be his best friend’s first choice if it wasn’t for the uncertainty. Stiles doesn’t want Scott to leave, he doesn’t want Erica, Isaac and Boyd out of his life, and Derek…he wants to spend more time with Derek, to explore what this is between them, wants to find out more about him.

“Stiles—”

“Are you going to leave?” Stiles blurts. “I—I mean I—Scott wants to join your pack but he doesn’t want to leave Beacon Hills. I know it’s one of the rules and all that but this has been your home once. It could be again.”

Derek stares at him wordlessly for a couple of long, long minutes.

“My whole family died in this town. Why would I want to live here?” he inquires. Derek arches an eyebrow, looking expectant and reluctant at the same time. Stiles’ heart drops, he feels stupid. It’s a legitimate concern; Stiles can’t come up with a good reason why Derek should stay. There’s nothing that holds him here.

Stiles’ shoulders slump. “Yeah, huh,” he mutters. “Valid point. Why should you.”

He moves past Derek and to the apartment door. With one hand on the handle, Stiles turns back around. “What are your plans now?”

Derek raises a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I have another request lined up in Chicago.”

Stiles nods numbly. When the door falls shut behind him, it’s a strangely ominous sound, and it shouldn’t feel like a blow to the chest. He laughs meanly at himself. What did he even expect? That Derek would stay, because of Stiles’ ridiculous crush on him? Stiles knew it was a mistake even considering it an option that there might be more between Derek and him.

Once he’s home, Stiles flops onto the couch, tips his head back to stare at the ceiling. Stiles is aware he’s being pathetic. It’s pathetic to mope over nothing, and it was pathetic to give in to sweet temptation, to imagine how things could be. He exhales a long breath. Calling Scott comes to mind for a moment, telling him not to join Derek but then again, Stiles won’t make Scott choose. It wouldn’t be fair.

Stiles doesn’t see Scott for the following few days, and Scott doesn’t answer his phone when Stiles tries to call. Friday passes without a word from his best friend. It leaves Stiles restless. Scott’s decision who to join wasn’t clear when Stiles last talked to him, so he still has no idea what’s going on.

Sunday night his phone buzzes with a call from Scott, and Stiles almost breaks his neck trying to get to his cell.

“Scott?”

Scott’s familiar laugh answers him. “Dude, were you running?”

“Uh, no,” Stiles says. “What was going on? I tried calling you a million times.”

“I know, man, sorry. I was kind of busy with all of the official stuff going on. Guess what, though,” Scott explains eagerly. He sounds so excited. Stiles sits on the edge of the couch cushions. “I’m part of Derek’s pack now.”

Stiles clutches at his phone to keep himself from throwing it against the wall. “That’s awesome, buddy,” he forces out and tries hard for a light tone. Stiles guesses Scott is willing to leave Beacon Hills after all.

“You know what the best part is?” Scott asks excitedly.

The doorbell rings. Stiles swallows back a venomous comment and quickly interrupts Scott, “There’s someone at the door. Talk to you later.”

He hangs up before Scott can say anything. There’s no need in telling Stiles how awesome Chicago will be. Stiles inhales deeply before he pushes off the couch to go answer the door.

Derek is the last person he expects to find standing on his porch. Stiles feels frozen in place.

“Uh. Did you come to say goodbye?” Stiles manages to ask eventually.

Derek looks at him with an unreadable expression. He asks, “Can I come in?”

Stiles is weirdly tempted to throw the door shut in his face but his dad has taught him manners, so he just steps aside and gestures Derek inside. Distinctly, he realizes it’s the first time Derek’s visited him at home. Must be important. Wow. He really goes out of his way to say goodbye. 

“Scott joined me,” Derek opens when Stiles walks past him and into the living room, dropping onto the couch. Derek remains standing in the doorway and leans against the frame, just like he did in his apartment.

“I know,” Stiles says bitterly. “He’s just told me. Congrats.”

Derek doesn’t respond.

“So when are you guys leaving for Chicago?”

Stiles misses nonchalance by far. It’s embarrassing. Derek frowns at him.

“We don’t,” he replies slowly.

“But you said you were going to Chicago,” Stiles says. It comes out harsher than Stiles intended.

“I never said that,” Derek disagrees, his frown deepening. “I just said—I didn’t. I wasn’t going to leave.”

This is all getting too much. And what is it now with the past tense? Stiles feels increasingly frustrated, even more so than before.

“I thought you didn’t want to stay here. Where your family died.”

Derek is silent, avoids looking at Stiles directly. Stiles doesn’t know what to make of it. This is getting more ridiculous by the minute, and the longer Derek doesn’t say anything, the angrier Stiles gets. Why is Derek even here?

“I’m not a mind reader, you know,” Stiles says crossly. “Is there anything you want to tell me, or did you come here just to stare creepily at nothing?”

Derek’s head snaps up and he glowers at Stiles. He steps away from the door frame and makes his way to Stiles until he stands in front of him, looking down. Stiles gets up, because the feeling of being stared down, literally, isn’t something he particularly enjoys.

“You’re irritating,” Derek says, and he sounds annoyed. “Your innuendos are driving me up the wall, I don’t get your fascination with comics and you make a joke out of everything. I still don’t know whether you’re incredibly brave or just plain dumb, annoying werewolves like you do. You don’t back down from a confrontation but you still say sorry when you feel like you need to. I can’t figure you out, Stiles, because every time I think I get the hang of who you are and what you do, you do or say something that I didn’t see coming. I’m not used to that, so yeah, you’re irritating, and you fucking fascinate me.”

How he manages to sound annoyed and fond at the same time is a miracle to Stiles, and Stiles can’t do anything but stare at Derek with his mouth hanging open.

“I hoped you would ask me to stay, I guess,” Derek adds, quietly and softly, and Stiles makes a strained noise. “I wanted you to ask me to stay.”

Derek moves in close, and Stiles feels himself lean in.

“You’re so—”

“Exhilaratingly witty?”

“Infuriating.”

“Drop-dead gorgeous?”

“An annoying smartass.”

“Devastatingly intriguing?”

“A sarcastic little shit.”

“In other words: the perfect combination,” Stiles whispers against Derek’s mouth, and all but crashes his lips to Derek’s, and then they’re kissing, hungry and desperate and filthy. Derek’s hands are in Stiles’ hair, holding his head in position while Stiles runs his fingers over Derek’s arms, his back and his shoulders up to his neck.

“Don’t leave,” Stiles gasps in between kisses. Derek nips at his bottom lip.

“I won’t,” Derek promises before he goes right back to kissing Stiles senseless .

***

When Stiles stirs awake the next morning, the first very few seconds are peaceful until reality hits him, and he feels hollow and numb again. The light in the room is grey and dim. Stiles figures it’s still pretty early. Derek is sleeping soundly next to him, and Stiles takes a few moments to gaze at him. He looks relaxed and soft, and not haunted and hunted. Stiles pushes some dark strands of hair out of Derek’s forehead.

He rolls onto his back and drags a hand through his hair. His brain tells him that the throbbing pain in his chest that he feels is just imagination, it’s not there, it’s in his head, it’s only make-believe. Stiles screws his eyes shut, breathing in and out deeply a few times. Everything in him aches to go home, to go back to his dad and his friends, to feel safe again.

No.

Stiles opens his eyes again. This has to stop. He can’t dwell on it, he can’t keep hanging on to things that he can’t have. He’s here now, with Derek, with the man he loves. It’s fine. He’s okay. He’s alright.

He gets out of bed, throws on some sweats and a shirt and quickly scribbles a note for Derek that he’s out for a run. Stiles smacks the post-it on Derek’s forehead. Derek doesn’t respond in any way. He’s probably so far into dreamland that he didn’t notice it.

It’s pleasurably cool outside. The sun sends first beams over the sky, dips it greyish blue with golden streaks. Stiles starts running, and everything is silent and sleepy. Cars drive down the streets every once in awhile but other than that the only thing Stiles hears are the songs of the birds. It’s peaceful, soothing, and the pain in his chest eases a little.

Someone snatches him from an alleyway. Stiles barely maintains to hold in a panicked scream.

“Sorry,” Derek breathes into his ear immediately, arms looped around Stiles’ waist. “Sorry.”

Stiles can feel his body relax at once but he pushes his fingers into both of Derek’s sides in retaliation, making him jump and squirm away. He can’t help the smirk spreading over his face. This will just never cease to be funny.

“You deserved that,” Stiles says when Derek glowers at him. “Jumping me like that. I almost had a heart attack.”

Stiles is quite sure Derek can hear Stiles’ pulse skyrocketing.

“I never heard you complain before,” Derek answers, and, oh, that grin is _dirty_. He’s clothed in loose pants and a tank top, and Stiles wants to be all over that.

“And you’re saying I make innuendos out of everything,” Stiles grouses, turning and starting running again. Derek falls into an easy jog with him.

“I blame your bad influence,” Derek counters wryly.

“My bad influence? You made that _long_ and _hard_ pun in front of my _father_. I’m sure he’s still traumatized by that.”

“That doesn’t prove me wrong exactly.”

“Oh please, my puns are better than that. And more importantly, I’m kind of shocked that you are still completely shameless about the thing with Dad.”

“Your father is a grown man, he can take it. Besides, he’s used to it anyway, it wasn’t exactly a novelty. And I still remember you laughing ten minutes straight about that leaking rod thing.”

“That was hilarious.”

“It was stupid.”

“You only say that because your sense of humour is for shit.”

“If my humour is for shit, yours must be too as you still laugh like a lunatic when you read Three Men in a Boat.”

Stiles opens his mouth to counter but he can’t come up with a witty retort. He grumbles quietly and Derek laughs shamelessly at him.

“How did you get here so fast? You were sound asleep when I left,” he says then.

Derek grins smugly. “I ran following your heartbeat.”

“Show-off,” Stiles mutters with an eye roll.

“I’m not showing off. You run at the pace of a snail,” Derek mocks. He dodges Stiles’ hands when he tries to jab his fingers into Derek’s side again.

“You’re the worst boyfriend ever,” Stiles grouches grumpily, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent the smile from splitting his face in half.

“You’re the most amazing,” Derek says. Stiles ducks his head, and when he looks up again he barely manages to avoid running face first into a lamppost. Derek ruins the mood by snorting.

“You killed the mood, Derek.”

“It wasn’t me who almost face-planted into a lamppost.”

“’Worst’ doesn’t even begin to cover you.”

Derek laughs quietly. Stiles tries not to trip over his own feet at the sound.

Stiles is disgustingly sweaty by the time they get back to the motel room, and Derek, of course, looks like he just stepped out of an ad for Nike shoes or something. It’s unfair, seriously, depressingly unfair. Derek probably hasn’t even broken a sweat.

They end up in the shower together—it’s a thing, they shower together more often than not—and Derek gently scrubs Stiles’ back while Stiles leans his heated face against the cold tiles.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks quietly, turning Stiles around to himself. He brushes the wet hair out of Stiles’ face.

“I should ask you that,” Stiles replies thoughtfully, looking intently at Derek, and thinking about how he should be comforting him.

“Don’t worry about me, Stiles,” Derek insists. He trails his fingertips over Stiles’ collarbones, and Stiles closes his eyes, absorbing the touch, enjoying it. “I’m fine as long as you’re fine.”

“Do you memorize those lines from books or what?” Stiles says teasingly, opening his eyes again. Derek rolls his eyes as he leans in and nips at Stiles’ bottom lip.

“You have the worst timing with your damned sarcasm. It’s infuriating,” he complains against Stiles’ lips. “Just suck it up.”

Stiles opens his mouth, and Derek immediately leans in and licks into it. “Don’t make an innuendo out of it,” he warns in between kisses, and Stiles can’t help but grin.

They pack up and leave after the shower, and get breakfast and coffee somewhere on the way. Surprisingly, Derek offers to let Stiles drive. It’s not actually a big deal, it’s not like Derek doesn’t trust Stiles with the car. He likes driving. Maybe a bit too much.

Derek rummages in one of the Stiles’ bags and gets his MP3-player out, the one Stiles had in the pocket of his hoodie the night they left. Stiles remembers how the music he has on his player was the only thing they listened to for the first couple of weeks, over and over and over again, until they got sick of it and the battery died. They haven’t plugged it in since, although Stiles had managed to charge the player again.

Now, Derek plugs it into the port and starts the playback. The way he eases back into the seat, leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes makes Stiles feel warm all over. It’s easy and nice, and Derek looks relaxed and content, and it does crazy, crazy things to Stiles’ feelings.

“Love the song,” Derek murmurs, turning up the volume a little bit. Stiles quirks his lips.

When the sun is fully up, Stiles rolls the windows down, lets the mild morning air rush into the cockpit. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees how the wind catches in Derek’s hair. Stiles smiles to himself, letting the false sense of peace settle over him, for the moment.

It’s still light outside when they pull into the parking lot of another motel, and Stiles indistinctly wonders that Derek doesn’t protest about them spending night after night in motels, so shortly after the incident with the Marshals. Not like he’s complaining, though. When Derek struts across the lot to the reception, Stiles allows himself to admire the view, because really, sometimes he thinks Derek only puts on the tight jeans and the figure-flattering henleys and shirts to make Stiles’ mouth water. It’s probably a seduction technique. Really, Derek would know. He’s perfectly aware of how people perceive him, and he knows how to work the stubble, the frown and the eyebrows. Especially the eyebrows.

Derek casts a look over his shoulder and smirks when he catches Stiles’ staring. Stiles grins back shamelessly. He can tap that as often as he wants, and, well, sometimes watching is nice too.

“I actually can’t remember when the last time was we had Chinese,” Stiles says, jabbing his fork into his fried noodles while Derek elegantly picks up some rice with his chopsticks. Derek had tried to teach him how to use them once but it didn’t end particularly well and they haven’t tried again since. Plus, Stiles is really comfortable with his fork.

“It’s been a while,” Derek agrees, dipping his chicken into some sauce. Stiles tries to snag some vegetables from Derek but Derek reacts fast, pinning Stiles’ fork with his chopsticks. The grin he presents Stiles with is disgustingly shit-eating. Stiles makes a face.

“Stop gloating,” he says with an eye roll. “This is cheating.”

“It’s not.”

“Uh, yeah, it is, you have an unfair advantage, and I really want those vegetables.”

“Like I said: pace of a snail,” Derek points out smugly. “You could’ve ordered vegetables for yourself. These are mine.”

Stiles glowers at Derek, and Derek glowers right back.

“You only want them because I want them.”

Derek huffs out a breath. “You can’t prove that.”

Stiles flails his hands, incredulous. “Oh my _god_.”

“Feel free to call me Derek.”

“That one’s lame, dude.”

Derek smirks like he doesn’t care. He goes back to eating, pointedly taking some of the vegetables and shovelling them into his mouth and leaving Stiles pouting.

Derek ends up sharing with him, because no matter what, he always does when he knows Stiles wants something.

After nightfall, Derek leaves to go run wild, burn off some energy in the nearby forest; Stiles calls it ‘Frolicking in the Woods’ (and Derek always rolls his eyes at him for that). He doesn’t do it very often, because it means that they’re separated, and Stiles knows that Derek doesn’t like to leave without being in arm’s reach. Still, Derek may not get as jittery as Stiles when he doesn’t get to burn some energy but that doesn’t mean the urge to go and just _run_ until his lungs burn isn’t there.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says and kisses Stiles, like a promise. “Be safe until then.”

“You too,” Stiles mumbles against Derek’s lips before kissing him again, soft, pleading.

Stiles decides to go get some coke after a while, partly because he feels like drinking it again and partly because he knows how Derek secretly craves it. The grocery store is right across the street. It’s the only reason decides to go get something to drink. He wouldn’t go if there wasn’t a store in the direct periphery. Derek wouldn’t want him to, and Stiles isn’t exactly keen on having an accidental run in with agents or Marshals again.

When Stiles leaves the store with two bottles of coke, he walks behind two men, and fumbles a little clumsily with his change. His mind snaps to attention when he hears one of the guys say, “Hale’s been heading in this direction. Either he’s passed already or he’ll be here soon.”

“Randall said Hale and the boy have been seen in Summit yesterday,” the other one provides. “And the car they’re driving isn’t really low-key. We should find them soon enough.”

Stiles almost drops the bottles. His heart is hammering painfully against his ribs. The thought that they have been kept tabs on makes him feel sick. He shouldn’t be surprised, though, the peace never holds for long.

“Argent will be here soon,” the first guy says. “We have orders not to kill Hale.”

Hunters, of course. Stiles feels like bolting. The news of Argent is even more horrifying, and Stiles just wants to get out of this town as fast as possible, driving and driving and driving, and not stopping until they’re at the other side of the world. It seems he and Derek can’t catch a break. Stiles quickly glances across the street to the motel’s parking lot. Luckily, Derek’s parked the car in the shadowy part where the lanterns aren’t working, so the Camaro is hidden and not visible. He’s relieved, so relieved, but he keeps his breath in. Stiles pulls some of his hair into his face and ducks his head. The men have stopped at their cars, so he just walks by, staring down at his hand, in which he still holds the change, as if to count the money.

As soon as he’s out of the hearing range of the hunters, Stiles pulls his cell phone out. It’s a fruitless effort calling Derek, he doesn’t has his phone on him when he’s running through the forest in his wolf form but he’s been gone for a while, so chances are that he’ll get his hands on it soon enough.

“Derek,” Stiles hisses into the speaker of his phone the instant he gets to the voice mail. “Hunters. They’ve kept tabs on us, they’re following us, and Argent is on his way up here. Meet me in the forest, I’ll bring our stuff and the car.”

Frantically, Stiles shoves their belongings into the duffels and stuffs them into the Camaro. The receptionist looks at him confused when he checks out again, and Stiles manages to flash her a little smile. Back in the parking lot he quickly glances around before getting into the car. He figures Derek will pick his heartbeat out when Stiles is in the forest, or hopes so, and puts the car into gear.

Stiles parks the car at a trampled down path to the forest. He hesitates a moment but then he reaches into the glove box to get the gun. The weight of it feels weird in his hand, and he doesn’t really like it. He shudders out a breath and checks to make sure the safety is on before stuffing the gun into the pocket of his hoodie. Hopefully, he won’t have to use it. He just wants to get Derek, and then they’re out of here.

It takes his eyes some time to adjust to the darkness of the forest, and Stiles stumbles along the way. He doesn’t actually know where he’s going or where Derek is, he hopes Derek will find him. Stiles tries to call him again, for good measure but he still gets the voice mail. He tries to keep it together, telling himself that the hunters don’t know that Derek’s here, they don’t and they won’t find out. Admittedly, though, it’s not helping at all.

He feels like he’s been wandering around for the better part of eternity when he hears a soft sound. Stiles stills, straining his ears and trying to hear. It’s a quiet shuffling sound, like someone’s walking barefoot on moss and fir needles.

Derek flashes his eyes red for a second until he easily trots over to him. Stiles can’t help the relieved exhale when he sees him. His hands automatically stroke through Derek’s fur, and Derek leans against him lightly, looking up, watching Stiles intently.

“We need to leave, Derek,” Stiles says, cupping Derek’s muzzle with one hand. “Apparently a bunch of hunters kept tabs on us, and some of them are here now. And Argent is on his way here too.”

There’s a quiet, low grumble in Derek’s chest; not quite a growl but a distressed sound.

“The car is this way,” Stiles adds and points in the direction he came from. He starts walking but Derek sits back on his haunches. Confused, Stiles asks, “What?”

Derek shakes his head, and Stiles would laugh about it if his mind wasn’t clouded by the impending threat of hunters finding them. “Didn’t you get the part where hunters are on our trail and Argent is going to be here soon?”

When Stiles walks back to him, Derek catches the end of Stiles’ hoodie and pulls at it. At first, Stiles doesn’t get it until—

“Oh my god, you want to get your clothes _now_? You can get dressed in the car, dude!”

Derek huffs a little, and Stiles is about to tell him not to get sassy in his wolf form when Derek butts his head against Stiles’ hip, urging him on. Stiles translates it into, “Go wait in the car while I get my stuff,” and he figures he can’t argue with Derek while Derek can only wolf-sass him, so he just goes without protest.

He’s not even half way back to the car when hears the voices and the unmistaken sound of guns cocking, coming into his direction. Stiles turns and runs before he even registers making the decision. His pulse is skyrocketing, and the sheer fear for Derek’s life makes it hard to breathe. Another thought hits him: the hunters must have seen the Camaro.

Dammit.

Stiles keeps himself from calling out for Derek, knowing it would only give them away, expose them even further, and he can’t risk that. Suddenly, he becomes hyper aware of the gun in his pocket, reaching inside and curling his hand around the grip. It doesn’t calm him, though, it makes him more anxious. So much to only get Derek and head out.

He almost jumps when his phone starts ringing. Stiles barely avoids tripping over a root, hurriedly trying to fish his cell out of the pocket of his pants, cursing under his breath in the process. He can hear the shouting of the hunters behind him already. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Finally, he yanks the phone out and flips it open, breathlessly yelping, “Derek.”

There’s a low chuckle at the other end, haughty and mocking. Stiles feels himself freezing in place. It’s not Derek’s voice. A million different thoughts crash into his mind, making his gut twist painfully. They have orders not to kill him, he reminds himself. Derek is not dead, he is not. Stiles almost topples over, he feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs.

“Try again, kid,” the voice says sardonically. Stiles grips the phone tightly and turns to look over his shoulder. It’s too dark to see properly but the hunters behind him seem in a hurry. They make so much noise it’s hard not to notice. Apparently, they’re so sure of themselves that they don’t give a shit about being stealthy.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice steady and firm but he can’t help the shuddery breath he exhales. His mind races in an attempt to find a way out of this, however, he also figures that the hunters only call him, because they haven’t found Derek. If they had, there was no point in getting in contact with Stiles. It’s no secret that the way to Derek is by getting to Stiles, he knows that, and if Jones knew, everyone else does too. He has to keep moving. As long as the hunters don’t get to him, chances are that they won’t get to Derek.

He doesn’t start running again, because the hunter would hear through the phone, but he starts walking, moving quietly through the woods.

“You know what we want, kid, don’t play dumb. Hale is around here somewhere,” the hunter answers, and Stiles indistinctly hears a humming sound in the background, like an electric buzz. He grits his teeth.

“Well, I won’t give him to you,” Stiles says resolutely.

Chuckling again, the hunter retorts, “What do you want to do, little boy that you are, huh? You can’t stop us.”

“Watch me,” Stiles snaps and brings the speaker right in front of his mouth. “Fucker.”

He flips the phone shut and throws it forcefully into the opposite direction before turning to run again. There’s no way he’ll let them have Derek.

Stiles runs and stays alert to unnatural sounds around him. He can’t hear the hunters anymore but he knows that doesn’t mean they’re gone. His head is all over the place, and Stiles simply can’t come up with an escape plan. The car is in the other direction, where some of the hunters are blocking the way, and Stiles doesn’t know where exactly the other bunch of them is. Derek is still out here somewhere. Most likely, he’s noticed the hunters already and lurks around the woods.

Stiles is proven wrong with that last thought when Derek comes barrelling into him, tackling him to the ground and almost completely covers Stiles’ upper body with his paws and flank. It feels like all the air has been knocked out of his lungs, and Stiles has to heave in a deep breath. Derek crawls off him so Stiles can sit up. The tiny moment of relief almost brings tears to his eyes. Stiles closes his arms around Derek’s neck and pulls him close, letting Derek nuzzle into his throat.

“We have to get out of here somehow,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s fur. It’s so damn hard to keep it together. He notices himself trembling, and Derek rubs his head soothingly against his neck. Obviously, he hasn’t got his clothes back, and even though Derek is the least bit of self-conscious about his body he wouldn’t run around naked in the forest.

Derek perks up then, ears upright. There’s a growl rising from within his chest. Stiles scrambles to stand but that’s the moment the hunters swarm in around them. They’re six of them, and Stiles can see enough to make out that they’re all armed. His heartbeat is skyrocketing again, adrenaline pulsing through him, and the fear clutching at him is all-encompassing. Stiles breathes in and breathes out, and tries so very hard to focus, not to freak out. Derek stands protectively in front of him, snarling threateningly at the hunters, sharp teeth bared and ears flat on his head.

“Look who we got,” one of the hunters says, and Stiles recognizes the voice from the phone call. “A boy and his lapdog.”

Derek growls louder, aggressively. He looks like he’s about to pound.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen a lapdog,” Stiles answers. He wants to stroke over Derek’s back, reassuring him, calming him down a little, but he doesn’t do it. Not in front of the hunters when they would make degrading jokes about it. Derek takes a step forward, and every hunter points his weapon at him immediately. His fur bristles even more.

“We should put a muzzle and a leash on it,” another hunter comments, with a cruel smile on his lips.

Derek pounces awfully quickly. After that it’s chaos, shouting and yelling, and firing, and it’s too dark for Stiles to actually see everything. He can hear Derek growling and snarling; hears cloth tearing and one of the hunters cocking a gun. Stiles pulls the gun out of his pocket, fingers moving on their own volition when turning the safety off and loading the first bullet.

Derek is fast, moving smoothly around the hunters, and the fact that it’s dark and they don’t see much better is a real advantage. Stiles can see his shadow skimming around him before tackling one hunter at a time, knocking their weapons out of their hands. Derek is on one of them, biting at the wrist of the hand that holds a crossbow, when one of the others gets up again. The hunter pulls a small revolver out of the waistband of his pants and points it at Derek, and Stiles firmly grasps the grip of his gun, steadying his fingers with his other hand. He squints, aims at the hunter’s leg. A low tremor runs through his body at the thought of what he is about to do but Stiles keeps his hands calm.

He pulls the trigger.

The shot echoes loudly through the forest, followed by an outcry of the hunter, surprised and pained. He goes down, dropping the weapon and clutching at his leg. Stiles shouldn’t feel relieved, yet he does, about both getting the hunter off Derek’s back and not killing the guy.

He has a moment of triumph before someone grabs his wrist. Stiles yelps in pain when his arm is being twisted behind his back, prying the gun out of his grip.

“That’s not a toy, you know,” the hunter says. He lets go of Stiles’ arm. There’s a smile on his face that raises the hairs on Stiles’ nape, vicious and cold. His eyes flit from Stiles’ face to where Derek is hovering over another of the hunter’s buddies, and back. It’s not the same guy Stiles talked to on the phone. This one seems more dangerous; his voice calm, snide, and full with gruesome promises. He runs his fingers over the barrel of the gun.

Stiles should have seen it coming when the hunter lashes out and crashes the butt of the gun to his face. The pain in Stiles’ cheek is searing, blinding, and he drops the ground, hitting his head on something hard. Another burst of pain explodes in his head, blurring his vision for some horribly long moments. He can hear the hunter laugh above him. Derek snarls viciously. Stiles wants to curl in around himself, the pain almost blends out everything else and makes it hard to focus on anything but the way his head seems to be on fire.

Suddenly, Derek whines out in pain, and Stiles is again hyper aware of their situation, of Derek and how he’s hurt now too. Stiles sits up slowly and raises his head, white sparks dancing in front of his eyes. He feels blood dripping down the side of his face, where he hit his head on the ground. Derek is lying on his side and blue smoke rises from a wound near his shoulder.

God fucking dammit.

Stiles grits his teeth and ignores the pain blooming in his face, making his sight blurry, and crawls over to where Derek is lying. The hunters are coming to again, collecting their weapons, and the guy who knocked Stiles out is standing in the middle of them. Stiles kneels in front of Derek, with the back to the form of the wolf, staring up into the eyes of the man who now points a gun at his face.

“Move out of the way, kid.”

“You want to get to him you have to go through me.”

The hunter smirks ferociously. “Gladly.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finished, my friends. I apologize in advance that this chapter is way longer than the others.
> 
> Big, big, HUGE thanks to my betas Kate, Rena and Chris. I'm sure they're glad they don't have to put up with all of my stupid tense mistakes and my whining about this fic. You guys are awesome, I probably wouldn't have finished it without you. 
> 
> There will be fourth chapter in a bit, but it's gonna be the soundtrack for this fic. Since I listed the scenes for the songs, THE SOUNDTRACK WILL CONTAIN SPOILER. Just so you're warned. 
> 
> Some more warnings in the end notes.

Focusing back on college is—unsurprisingly—a whole lot easier if you don’t have to worry about your best friend clawing anyone apart. It’s almost weird, though, spending so much time concentrating on classes and studying. Stiles didn’t actually neglect any of it while Scott was in training but he also didn’t put as much thought and effort into his studies as he normally does. 

But it’s also kind of liberating. Stiles isn’t constantly concerned about Scott’s condition, and if he’s figured out to control himself. It is one thing off his mental List Of Things To Angst Over. Which actually isn’t that long nowadays. Luckily. 

Finals almost kick Stiles’ ass and he has to do a lot of cramming, a whole bunch of all-nighters and drinks gallons of coffee to catch up and be prepared. Derek makes Disapproving Eyebrows at him basically all the time. He also complains a lot—which Derek denies like his life depends on it—because Stiles doesn’t really have time to put out. It’s actually hilarious. As it turns out, Derek has the most adorable pouty face ever, and Stiles gets distracted more often than not to coo over it. (Which turns pouty into grouchy with pinkening eartips.) 

Generally though, Derek is considerate and helps Stiles study. They cook together while Derek quizzes Stiles on the stuff he needs for his exams. Derek helps sorting through the notes and organizing them, makes breakfast before Stiles has to leave for an exam, and seems more than willing to play pillow when Stiles falls asleep on him during study sessions. 

By the time Stiles stumbles into his room after his last exam, he feels like his brain might bleed out through his nose. Derek’s lounging on his bed reading one of Stiles’ study books but he scoots over when Stiles drops down beside him.

“How did it go?” Derek asks putting the book aside.

“My brain did a last valiant effort, and if I don’t get an A on this, I will cry,” Stiles mutters into the pillow. “It will be ugly,” he adds. 

Derek snorts a little but he’s shuffling around until Stiles can feel his weight on the back of his thighs. He slips his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, splays his hands out over his back, rucking up the fabric. Derek’s lips follow his hands trailing tiny feathery kisses up Stiles’ vertebrae. Stiles lets out a blissful sigh, stretches out under Derek. 

“Wanna ditch the shirt?” Derek asks next to Stiles’ ear. Stiles pulls it up over his head, lets it drop next to the bed while Derek’s hands trace the ribs on Stiles’ sides. 

Derek starts massaging Stiles’ shoulders, pressure just right to make Stiles groan in delight. 

“You’re pretty stiff,” Derek notes working out a knot over his shoulder blade.

“Oh, I can show you something stiff alright,” Stiles says, voice catching on another moan. He can practically hear Derek roll his eyes so hard he strains his optic nerves. 

“Guess now that you’ve bled out all the academic parts of your brain only the lower stuff is left, huh?”

Stiles huffs. “I resent that.”

“Sure you do.”

There’s a knock on his door—even though it’s open—followed by Dad’s cheerful, “I brought Chinese,” anticipation clear in his voice.

Stiles’ protests die right on his vocal chords when Derek digs the heels of his hands into Stiles’ shoulders.

“That’s right, Derek, keep him occupied while I eat,” Dad says smugly, and Derek kind of snort-laughs while Dad saunters away, whistling happily. 

Dad found out about them before Stiles could actually tell him. There was a plan to tell him but it fell flat when he found Stiles and Derek making out on the couch after coming home from work—which was on the same day as Stiles wanted to tell him. Which happened to be also the same day Stiles and Derek got together. Figures. Whatever. 

Dad had stared, frozen for a moment, then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “No funky business on my couch,” were his first words, and then, “Derek, beer?”

The only other time he’d commented on them was when Stiles and Derek were in the middle of—a _thing_ , when there’d been loud hammering from right under Stiles’ bedroom. Turned out that Dad used the end of a broomstick to knock it against the ceiling, yelling, “Tone down the porn!” from downstairs. The only upside Stiles had gained from this was the way Derek’s eyebrows did a dance of shame on his face, and the fact that, apparently, Stiles had the (not-so) secret ability to suck Derek’s brains out through his dick; and, by extension, made him zone out completely.

“He’ll eat the greasy stuff,” Stiles moans into the pillow, scrambling to get out from under Derek. It’s easier said than done given that Derek is a solid weight above him holding him down effortlessly. On a lot of other occasions Stiles would enjoy this quite a lot, thank you very much. “Don’t let him eat the greasy stuff.”

“He deserves a treat every once in a while,” Derek suggests before he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Stiles’ neck. “It won’t do any harm.”

Stiles wants to protest and to argue, he really does, but then Derek drags his nails down the length of Stiles’ back with just the right amount of pressure that makes Stiles arch and gasp and shudder, mind blank. 

“Erica’s giving him enough shit. Poor sheriff can’t even eat his secret doughnuts in peace now,” Derek breathes against his ear, hands low on Stiles’ back, drawing circles on his skin. 

“He ate doughnuts at work?” At least he can muster the right amount of indignation. 

“He did,” Derek confirms, amused, “that was until Erica started her training as a deputy and sniffed it out.”

“Serves him right,” Stiles says, voice cracking as Derek slides his thumbs along his spine, and oh, it’s sweet, sweet pressure. “Old man thinks he can outsmart me.”

“He did outsmart you,” Derek points out and there is way too much smugness in his tone for it to be appropriate. “Erica found out about the doughnuts, not you. And he’d been eating them for quite a long time before that.”

“You knew?” Stiles buries his face in the pillow as Derek massages the base of his neck, arching into his hands. 

“Yep.”

“You ass—” Stiles whites out for a second when Derek hits the right spot somewhere above his right shoulder blade. “—nut.”

Derek laughs quietly, smug. “Is it Make Up Stupid New Insults Time again? I gotta say, assnut is one of your rather uncreative ones.”

“I was thinking about doughnuts,” Stiles admits, and Derek’s hands still. And then there are puffs of cool breath against the bare skin of his shoulder when Derek tries to keep his laughter in.

“I don’t know how ass and doughnuts go together in your head but I think it’s better if I don’t know.”

Stiles only manages a gurgled sound, smashes his face into his pillow and huffs, outraged. Derek smoothes a hand down his back, peppering his neck and shoulders with soft, dry kisses. “In my defense, I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to eat them,” he placates.

“You’ll have to make up for it,” Stiles acquiesces graciously. “Thoroughly. Extendedly.”

“The only thing you’ll remember when I’m done with you,” Derek breathes into his ear, low and promising, “will be my name.”

Stiles shudders, a thrill of anticipation sparking through his body as goosebumps spread over his skin like fire. Derek mouths down his back, places a kiss on every knob of his spine until he huffs an open-mouthed, hot breath over Stiles’ lower back. Stiles can’t help but jerk when Derek latches onto a spot right next to his tail bone, sucking and biting a hickey into his skin. 

“We’re lucky my dad is busy gorging himself into a greasy food coma right now,” Stiles heaves out, toes curling, as Derek finishes his work. “What is it with you and hickeys?”

Derek sits back, lifts his weight off Stiles’ legs and lies down next to him. 

“I can stop if you want,” he offers brushing a hand through Stiles’ hair. 

Stiles scrunches up his nose. “Nah.”

“What is it with you and hickeys?” Derek parrots, but leans close and bumps his nose against Stiles’. “Let’s go downstairs and grab some food before it’s gone.”

“Are you implying that my father is a hog?” 

Derek rolls his eyes as he gets off the bed, throws a shirt at Stiles’ head. “No, I’m saying if I got the chance to eat food I’m normally not allowed to eat, I’d get as much as I can.”

“Got a point there,” Stiles concedes. He slips back into his shirt and follows Derek downstairs where Dad’s already halfway done with his box of takeout. 

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” Dad says, looking wistfully at the boxes Stiles and Derek grab, like he’s already made plans to eat them himself. 

Derek’s happily digging into his food, elegantly with his chopsticks, while Stiles struggles to open his box without spilling anything. He rolls his eyes though. “You can name one point in time when Derek _wasn’t_ hungry?”

It’s hilarious how Derek visibly struggles with himself, wanting to defend his own honour and dignity while simultaneously having to clamp down on the instinct to speak while he’s chewing. He has _manners_. (And Stiles finds it very desirable, actually, it’s just the funniest thing watching Derek’s indignation play out through his eyebrows only.)

“Besides, he was too busy sucking a hickey into my back, so there’s that too.”

Derek almost takes his own eye out with his chopsticks.

Dad looks completely unfazed. “Whatever it takes to get you off my back is okay with me,” he answers smoothly, clapping Derek fatherly on the back. “Just keep the happy noises down while I’m around.”

“There won’t be any happy noises for a while,” Derek answers, dry as a bone. 

“Didn’t you say the only thing I’ll remem—”

“No happy noises. Not again. Not ever.”

Dad sighs, long and suffering, and finishes up his Chinese. “I’m just gonna go and let some mindless TV shows numb my brain so I don’t remember any of this happened.”

“That’s the spirit, Dad,” Stiles calls after him, and, when he hears the TV, leans towards Derek hissing, “Stop being such a sourpuss.”

“Well, I’m sorry but he’s your _father_ —”

Stiles rolls his eyes making Derek bristle even more. “Chill, dude, we’re not living a life of chastity so it’s not like he doesn’t know what we’re doing anyway.”

“But you don’t have to _tell_ him.”

It’s so cute how Derek gets his panties in a twist over this, Stiles can’t help the fond smile that creeps across his lips. Derek just looks plenty disgruntled, shoves his chopsticks into his box and keeps eating, like this will magically make it all go away. 

“Jesus, I told him you gave me a hickey, that is such an _sexually explicit_ detail,” Stiles says sardonically. Derek shoots him a dirty look, continues to broodily stuff food into himself. Stiles abandons his own box in favour of scooting closer to Derek. “Hey,” he starts softly, kisses Derek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, okay. I won’t do it again if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You were planning on doing it _again_?” Derek asks sharply, and Stiles knocks his forehead against Derek’s shoulder.

“That’s what you got from my apology?”

Derek looks at him, appraising expression on his face. “Fine,” he eventually concedes.

“Will there be happy noises? In the foreseeable future? Foreseeable as in tonight?”

Derek gets this look, it’s actually his What The Fuck Face and it reminds Stiles a lot of the expression Toothless from _How To Train Your Dragon_ got when Hiccup first put the tail thing on him. The similarity is striking. 

“I’ll think about it,” Derek huffs.

They get to the happy noises. 

Derek also pays him back about two weeks later when he makes the most terrible _long and hard_ pun in front of his dad; he also chooses the most convenient time: right when Stiles is drinking, almost drowning himself when Derek presents the pun. He snorts it all over himself while Dad snickers in amusement (more about the pun than about Stiles, as it turns out), and Derek looks incredibly satisfied with himself. 

Stiles has the worst boyfriend. He should have seen that one coming. Someone who looks that good has to have a flaw of some sort. Balance has been restored now that Stiles found the flaw.

It’s easy to fall into a certain rhythm then. Derek’s pack settles into Beacon Hills: Isaac and Boyd get an apartment together, Erica insists on getting a place of her own, and Derek bemoans the fact that they somehow all end up at his place anyway, most of the time. 

Scott, meanwhile, checks in with college administration and gets the okay to repeat the last semester without failing any classes. 

The following full moon is a lot easier than the previous ones, and Derek lets Scott stay outside but sticks around him just to be safe. Scott does great though, and by the time the night is over Derek claps him on the shoulder and tells Scott he did good.

The full moons after that are a piece of cake. 

Derek shows Stiles the full shift, turns into a wolf right before Stiles’ eyes. It’s fascinating and it happens a lot faster than Stiles initially thought.

“It gets easier the more often you do it,” Derek explains to him after, when they’re sitting in the forest, Derek completely naked while the sun rises, first faint rays of light hitting his skin. “First time I did it, I had to stop because the pain was too much.”

“But if it’s painful, why do you keep doing it?” Stiles asks, puzzled and concerned, frowning at Derek. “Please don’t tell me you get used to the pain.”

“That’s not actually it,” Derek replies with a tiny smile. “It’s—it’s not some magical process. Your bones are shifting and mending and adjusting. Your body actually shifts, transforms into something different. We don’t just snap our fingers and that’s it. So the first couple of times it’s new, it’s painful because it’s a new sensation. The more often you do it, the easier it gets because then the process becomes fluider. A little like muscle memory.”

“So...you don’t feel any pain anymore?”

“I don’t,” Derek assures him, leans forward to brush his lips gently against Stiles’. “Promise.”

Sometimes, when Derek spends a night out roaming the Preserve, Stiles wakes up next to a huge wolf. At first, it’s a little difficult to remember that Derek and the wolf aren’t two different beings but one. Stiles gets the urge to pet him, cuddle up to him like he would with a dog when Derek is still capable of human rationality. It’s—Stiles knows it’s Derek, he does, but it takes some time to get used to the fact that he doesn’t have to treat the wolf any different than he would treat the human. 

During the summer, Erica’s parents come for a visit, delighted knowing that she’s finally settled down somewhere and happy to see her pursuing a career. Boyd’s family comes down for a visit too. Turns out he has a bunch of sisters who alternately fall in and out of love with either Isaac, Scott or Derek every day. It doesn’t matter though because Stiles is the only one who gets a flower crown from Alicia, the oldest one. 

It’s late August with only a couple of days left until classes start up again, and Stiles, Scott and Isaac are lounging on the couch at Stiles’, playing video games. Boyd snorted when Stiles had asked him if he wanted to play, and Erica was still busy with her training. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, eyes fixed on the screen. “How is that Derek and Dr. Mason are not fighting for dominance or territory or something?”

Scott and Isaac snort in unison, it’s terrifying. Stiles has seen them all doing stuff completely in sync before, whole motions even, and he’s fascinated with it. 

“We’re not territorial,” Isaac answers. “Being a werewolf doesn’t mean that we have the same instincts as wolves. We’re still people.”

“I get that,” Stiles says, feeling scolded. That’s not what he meant. 

“I know.” Isaac doesn’t tear his eyes off the screen. “I mean, we’re not strictly territorial. Two packs with two Alphas can live on the same territory as long as both don’t intend to go after each other’s power, you know. It would get ugly if Derek decided he wanted Dr. Mason’s power and pack, or if he’d wanted to assert himself as more dominant.”

“It’s about respect, basically,” Scott adds. “As long as they respect each other’s status and position, it’s all fine.”

“Where’s Derek, anyway?” Isaac asks.

“Uh, he’s out by the house.”

“The old Hale house? Does he want to rebuild it?” Scott sounds a little bit surprised.

“Nah. The land is still Hale property but he said he considered giving it to an organisation that builds up wolf sanctuaries and tries to re-populate wolves across the country,” Stiles says. Derek’s pretty adamant about not rebuilding the house but he also doesn’t really want to hand the land over the to city. Laura is buried there, after all, and he doesn’t want to risk anything. Wolves, Derek said, would sense her and wouldn’t disturb her grave. It’s another werewolf thing Stiles doesn’t really understand, the connection wolves and werewolves seem to have.

Scott hums in acknowledgment. “Nice.”

Stiles nods his agreement. He’s actually kind of glad that Derek doesn’t want to rebuild the house, even if it’s not for himself. It wouldn’t erase the stain of what happened there, and although Stiles doesn’t believe in karma or fate or anything like that, he doesn’t think a house on the soil where twelve innocent people died would be a beacon of light or whatever. 

He hasn’t asked Derek about Laura. It’s not like Stiles hasn’t ever thought of it but there just isn’t any good way to bring up a topic like this. Derek never talks about her or his family either, and Stiles doesn’t want to cross a boundary. When Derek’s ready to tell him, he will. Probably. 

Derek’s kinda testy when he comes home that night, uneasy even. The thing about Derek is that he’s not visibly restless. Stiles only realizes when Derek lies curled around him, arm securely around Stiles’ waist, and drums his fingers in a steady rhythm against Stiles’ stomach. It’s not a bad thing, it doesn’t bother Stiles at all but Derek never stops.

Stiles twists around to look at him but Derek’s staring at the wall, lost in thought, tight expression on his face. 

“Derek,” Stiles says quietly and trails his knuckles over Derek’s jaw. Derek blinks, leans into the touch as he focuses on Stiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Go to sleep,” Derek says, fond but dismissive, and it twists unpleasantly in Stiles’ gut. 

“You’re not okay.” Stiles has no idea what’s going on, if he’s done anything that might have pissed Derek off. “Did I do something, did I—?”

“No, Stiles,” Derek sighs and purses his lips. “It’s fine, just go to sleep.”

“You know that if you want me to go to sleep this isn’t the way to do it,” he points out. Derek looks him over, carefully, contemplatively. He brings his hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek then, leans down to kiss him. Stiles reciprocates, sighs dreamily as Derek’s tongue slides against his, and it’s good until Derek shifts, kneels above him and his hands slip beneath the waistband of Stiles’ boxers. 

Stiles jerks away, grabs Derek’s wrists, panting from the kiss. Derek looks distinctly annoyed, that’s at least how Stiles’ reads the position of his eyebrows. It’s too dark to really tell.

“That’s not what I meant,” Stiles clarifies as he lets go of Derek’s wrists to adjust his boxers. 

“Then what did you mean?” Derek snaps. Stiles feels uncomfortable suddenly, hyper aware of their position and how he’s almost caged under Derek. He crawls up, so he’s bracing himself on his knees. 

“I meant you could tell me what’s the matter with you,” Stiles suggests. “Not fuck me boneless so I go to sleep.”

“What, do you want me to lay out all my thoughts in front of you?” Derek sounds decidedly pissed off right now, and Stiles has no clue how they even got here.

“No, of course not.”

“Then stop trying to make me do that.”

“I’m not—I just—”

“I should go,” Derek interrupts him getting up. 

Stiles is out of his depth, unsure of what to do. Derek hasn’t shut him down like this before, and it’s—it hurts, more than he would’ve expected, and Stiles desperately wants to make it right. He moves without realizing, grabs ahold of Derek’s wrist, loosely, but Derek would be able to get free anyway. 

Derek stills though, doesn’t jerk his hand back and just looks down at where Stiles curls his fingers around his wrist.

“Please don’t,” Stiles says. “Don’t go.”

Derek stays quiet, and Stiles takes a breath. “You don’t have to tell me. I just—you know you can, right? It’s what I’m here for. I’ll listen to you. I worry about you. Just—I’m—just know that I’m here. For you.”

There’s a beat or two of complete stillness, like even the darkness around them holds its breath while Derek ponders. But then he leans down, seals his mouth over Stiles’, and Stiles can’t keep the tiny, desperate noise in. The kiss is soft, placating. Stiles can feel the mattress dipping where Derek braces himself on his knees, hands coming up curl around the nape of his neck and his back. 

They lie back down, facing each other, and Derek says, hushed, “Sorry,” into the night air between them. “This is...I’ve been on my own for a long time,” he explains quietly, and Stiles knows he doesn’t mean just the company of other people. “It’s been a while since I—”

He trails off and doesn’t pick up his track of thoughts, so Stiles lets it go, knows what Derek means either way. 

Derek lets out a sigh. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he says as he twines their fingers together, brushes his lips against Stiles’ knuckles. “Sleep now. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Normally, Stiles would argue about this but it’s the way Derek says it and the tone in his voice, the sincerity, that stops him from fighting. So he accepts the offer, inches closer, their joined hands between their chests. Derek’s free hand splays out over the small of his back, and they slot together, into place; topography of their bodies already molded that they fit perfectly into each curve and bump. 

When Derek tells him the next day, it’s like somebody took a sledgehammer to Stiles’ ribcage. 

Derek’s voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t stutter. He talks in steady, clear sentences like it’s a story that didn’t happen to him but to somebody else. 

Derek was seventeen when he fell for a substitute teacher in high school, Kate Argent. It started out harmless, Derek says, detached. She was a hot, older woman, and he was young and horny. Every guy in school talked about her, how sexy she was. Kate flirted shamelessly, she was charismatic, smart; she knew exactly that she was turning everybody’s head. Derek fell for it, just as almost every other guy in school. But he was lucky, he says, snorting, bitter. She turned her attention to him, seduced him. It was exciting, new, and she was experienced, knew what she wanted. At first, Derek didn’t even want more than just a physical relationship. He didn’t care. But they kept fooling around, and Kate was sweet and soft, her laughter pearly and clear, and she whispered things into his ear that made him feel important, treasured. He fell for her without even meaning to. And Kate held him close, physically and mentally, and Derek thought that she was the right person for him. 

Eventually, he told Laura about Kate, and although Laura was skeptical at first she was glad that he’d found somebody who made him happy. She said it probably wasn’t a good idea to tell their parents yet, because Derek was a student and Kate was his teacher, so they decided to keep it to themselves. 

Derek grinds his teeth, says that back then they had never heard of the Argents before. Well, Derek and Laura hadn’t. 

Months later, he was wrapped up in Kate, spent almost every free minute with her. He was sure he’d spend the rest of his life with her, so he decided to tell her: tell her about werewolves, about himself and his family. He didn’t talk to Laura first because he knew she’d try to reason with him, tell him not to. Not as long as their parents didn’t know about the relationship. But Derek was so sure, he had no doubts. He was young and naive and stupidly in love. 

The day after he told her, the house burned down to the ground with twelve innocent people in it. Laura and Derek were out with mutual friends, celebrating the end of the school year. They first realized something was wrong when Laura’s eyes had suddenly flashed crimson red, and then only a couple of minutes later they got the call. 

They’d stayed at a motel that night, and when Derek woke up the next morning he found a small, folded piece of paper that had been pushed through under the door. There was an imprint of a set of lips on it, like somebody had kissed the paper with lipstick on. Kate used to leave him notes like that, and Derek froze, felt like somebody dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.

He showed Laura. Laura made them pack up and leave right after, face ashen, sickly pale, and hands so tight around the steering wheel of the car that Derek thought she might break it. 

They’d lived together but stayed apart for some time. Eventually, Laura sat him down. She said she was angry with herself, for letting Derek continue his relationship with Kate, for not telling their parents. Derek asked if she was angry that he’d told Kate about them—because of course he’d told Laura after. She shook her head, said that the last thing she heard from the investigation was that they’d found traces of arson. Kate had probably planned this even before Derek told her about them; she knew already when she seduced Derek, used him to get more information. 

They found out about the Argents after that, did their research, and Derek felt gutted. How did he not know about such a famous hunter family? But werewolves weren’t prey, not unless they harmed a human, so he felt safe. His family had never had trouble with hunters before, and Derek didn’t understand why Kate had killed them all, just like that, without any reason at all. Not until he dug deeper, dug until he found all the dirt about the Argents; about how Gerard, Kate’s father, was a deranged psychopath, seemingly a harmless old man who secretly hated werewolves. God knows why. There was never any proof he did anything that wasn’t by the book. And Kate who sang her siren song and baited stupid young werewolves. Just as twisted as her father, just as hateful, and cruel, and merciless. 

“I fell into a pit after I found out,” Derek tells him. They’re outside, by the old Hale house, and Stiles can see the bright purple of wolfsbane over Laura’s grave. “I felt guilty and angry, I hated the world and myself. I still do, sometimes. It was a bad time for me, for Laura too, but I was too busy with my own grief.”

Stiles feels sick, stomach churning and clenching violently.

“I got my hands on wolfsbane, they sold it like crack on some corner. It was meant to be diluted with alcohol or pot or something; make it easier for us to get drunk or high. I smoked it pure, almost killed myself.” Derek sounds almost indifferent now but Stiles can tell he’s shutting it out, so the feelings and memories won’t come haunting him again. “Laura found me in time though, made sure I healed and then she beat the living shit out of me. I never tried anything like it again. She was so furious, so freaked out.”

There is nothing Stiles could say to make it better, and he hates it; hates that he can’t ease the pain. He takes Derek’s hand though, carefully entangles their fingers, and Derek gives them a gentle squeeze. 

“It got better after. Laura made me see a therapist, a werewolf himself so I could actually get treatment without holding back,” Derek continues. “I didn’t want to at first because I—I didn’t think I deserved feeling good, being alive. But I started talking eventually and it helped a lot. It made things better, not only for me but also for my relationship to Laura.”

Stiles knocks his shoulder against Derek, and Derek smiles fleetingly at him. “I never got around to finish the therapy because then Laura went back to Beacon Hills. She left me a note, told me not to come out here and sit tight until she came back. I didn’t listen to her, I couldn’t leave her, couldn’t let her go back here alone. So I went after her and half across the country I felt—the surge of power, it was like a shock and then my eyes—”

Stiles feels guilty suddenly, for treating it like a game when he went out with Scott looking for half a dead body. 

“When I found her—” Derek inhales deeply, squeezing tighter around Stiles’ hand. “Cutting werewolves in half is something you may call hunter standard procedure. Sometimes they kill you before they do it, sometimes they don’t. The report said she was dead before they did it to her.”

“You think it was Kate?” Stiles asks, cautious, when Derek stops and doesn’t go on. 

“I know it was Kate. Her smell was all over Laura’s body, faint but it’s not like I could ever forget it. I don’t know what exactly happened or why Laura came back but I think Kate tried to lure her back—I don’t know. Kate was gone by the time I got here.”

“Why didn’t you press charges?” Stiles asks, stupidly, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Derek snorts inelegantly. “Like anyone would’ve taken my case.”

“But there are werewolves in forensics and law and—”

“And Kate is from an old, prestigious hunter family; a family that is wrongly considered lawful and good because nothing ever leads back to them. It’s a werewolf’s word against a hunter’s, guess who they would rather believe? People think werewolves have a feud with hunters just for the sake of it, because hunters are the ones to keep us in check. People think we hate that, they think we hate that they put up a counter for us because normally we’re stronger than humans. Most people are hypocrites. They say, ‘I’m not speciest but’; just like they say they’re not racist, not sexist, not anything and yet, there’s always a but there. They’re scared because they hate feeling like they’re not superior.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Derek takes another deep breath.

“Sorry,” he says then, softer, calmer. “I know there are a lot of people who aren’t like that.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles answers. He wishes he could do anything to help.

Silence settles between them while they keep walking through the preserve. 

“Now you know,” Derek says eventually. He sounds drained, voice tinged with uncertainty. “Now you know what I did.”

“What you did?” Stiles looks at Derek, frowning disapprovingly. “You mean what she did.”

“Yeah,” Derek shrugs, doesn’t sound convinced and it pains Stiles, makes him wince.

“She abused you, Derek. Nothing of it is your fault,” Stiles insists, stops in his tracks and pulls Derek back by his hand when he tries to keep walking. “I’m not a therapist, okay, but I think I can say I know some things about psychology, and I know that this wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t be blaming yourself for what Kate did to your family, what she did to you. It’s not just an empty line, believe me, I mean it. I _know_ it.”

Derek stares at him, a little bit awed, a little disbelieving. He drops his gaze then, doesn’t look like he really believes what Stiles said. It’s no surprise really, Stiles knows these things take time to internalize for people—victims—like Derek. He hopes that one day, Derek will believe it; that one day he’ll stop blaming himself for what happened. 

“Yesterday,” Derek says, steering away from the topic. “I thought I caught Kate’s scent around the preserve, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s why I was—it threw me back and—” He stops himself, jaw working. “I guess I just imagined it.”

They loop around back to the house, and Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He feels overwhelmed with what Derek told him, unprepared, and helpless. Derek trusted him with this, and however tragic his past is, Stiles can’t help but feel warm about the amount of trust Derek put in him to open up like that. It explains why he was so reluctant about letting Stiles in in the first place, helping with Scott. 

“I’m sorry if I made you tell me,” he says finally. 

Derek squeezes his hand again. “You didn’t. I would have told you. I should have told you sooner.”

“No,” Stiles disagrees, casting a look at him. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me everything because you feel obliged or anything. Tell me because you want to when you want to.”

Derek stops, pulls Stiles back to him, so they’re flush against each other. “Would you have...with me...even if you had known...before?” Derek sounds like it’s hard to form the words, to say it out loud.

Stiles’ eyes flicker over his face. There’s uncertainty in his eyes, guilt in the line around his mouth. Stiles kisses him, briefly, smiles when Derek reacts instantaneously kissing him back. 

“Yeah, I would have still even if you had told me before,” he says, goes in for another kiss. There’s a sound, a tiny broken sound that escapes Derek’s throat and almost shatters Stiles’ heart. Derek thinking he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to love or be loved is one of the saddest things Stiles has ever come across. He wants Derek to see that he is allowed happiness. “I would,” he says again, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. “I would have, and I will. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Derek clutches at his back, looks at Stiles, searches his face. His shoulders relax visibly when he seems to find what he’s looking for, closes his eyes for a moment. He looks so young like that, haunted and pained, and Stiles hasn’t seen him like that before. Stiles tilts his head back a little, places a kiss on Derek’s forehead.

He makes the decision, a promise to himself, that he’s going to help Derek heal. 

They’re passing the Hale house when Derek stops again, whips his head around, body completely still otherwise.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, looking around.

Derek doesn’t answer right away, frozen on the spot. “Nothing,” he says then. “I just—I thought I caught her scent again.”

Stiles looks around again but around them stretch miles and miles of trees, nothing else. He’s sure Derek would have heard or seen if anyone was around anyway. The smell thing does seem weird, and Stiles feels kind of edgy. 

“What do you mean, you think?” he asks, turning back around to Derek.

“It’s—nothing. Maybe it’s the place,” Derek says as he looks at the burned out ruin of his childhood home. “Like—”

“Hearing the hum of mosquitos when there aren’t any there,” Stiles finishes, and Derek looks at him quizzically, but nods. He can probably tell for sure if there are mosquitos or not and doesn’t imagine that terrible noise that can keep Stiles awake whole nights. 

Derek shakes his head as if it would help him shake the strange sensation. He says, “It’s nothing,” again, lets his eyes sweep around one last time before they start walking back to the car. 

Stiles can’t stop thinking about it at first, wondering if maybe it’s some sort of PTSD syndrome or something like that. Derek imagining Kate’s scent surely isn’t exactly progressive for him. On the other hand, he wonders if maybe Derek didn’t imagine but actually smelled it, because her scent was actually there; faint enough to make him think he’s been hallucinating stuff but—no, that doesn’t make sense either. It’s been years since Kate was last in Beacon Hills, it’s impossible for her scent to have lingered for that long. And if it was fresh, it wouldn’t be faint, and Derek would probably already know if she was there. 

The thoughts fade out eventually, rest at the back of his head. Derek doesn’t pick the topic up again, but Stiles notices it in the following days: the way turns his head a little, tilts it back ever so slightly as if to scent the air. At first, Stiles doesn’t really take notice until one time he realizes that, every time, Derek goes still, rigid even, body tight with tension. He relaxes though when Stiles takes his hand or presses in close against Derek’s body; and Stiles can’t stop the thrill of contentment that surges through him at the thought that he, his mere presence, makes Derek feel better. 

They’re out grocery shopping—it’s a weirdly domestic thing that they’ve picked up—and they fight over which flavour of ice cream to buy. Derek doesn’t want vanilla, because apparently it’s boring, but Stiles doesn’t see the appeal in walnut. They go on back and forth until Stiles lays out the perfect argument which seems to leave Derek speechless. Stiles crows inwardly before he notices that Derek’s frozen again, looking at some point over Stiles’ shoulder. Taking Derek’s hand doesn’t help this time, and for some reason it sends chills down Stiles’ spine, makes his skin crawl. So, he turns to follow Derek’s line of sight.

A few aisles down, a woman with a basket casually hanging down her forearm is smiling widely in their direction. It seems bizarre though, blurry around the edges, inching into something hard and fake behind it; it’s subtle, barely there, and Stiles isn’t sure if he’s imagining things. It’s unnerving. She looks pretty, blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. 

Derek is stock still when she comes closer, moving fluidly, with deliberate predatory elegance. 

“My, my,” she says when she’s close enough, tilts her hip to rest the basket against it. There’s a lilt in her voice that makes the hairs on Stiles’ neck stand up. “Derek. I didn’t expect to see you in this dreadful town ever again.”

There’s something terribly off-putting about her, about the air surrounding her, and Stiles instinctively takes a step back, pressing closer to Derek. She rakes her eyes down Derek’s body and her smile grows wider, dangerous, and when her eyes flutter back to his face, the realization of who she is hits Stiles with painful certainty. 

Kate Argent. 

Derek wasn’t imagining her smell after all.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, voice tight and terse. His eyes are locked on her, like he’s afraid to look away; like she might disappear or do something if he didn’t pay attention.

Kate tilts her head seemingly playful. “Just visiting,” she answers, gleeful. She pouts innocently. “Didn’t you miss me? You must’ve been so lonely the last couple of years.”

Derek’s grip around his hand tightens, and Stiles feels like his stomach is turning. Kate smiles, all teeth, eyes wide with cruel glee. Stiles wants to step in front of Derek, wants to put as much distance, as many barriers between her and him as possible. 

When Derek doesn’t answer, her smirks widens. The expression on her face screams of satisfaction. “Or,” she starts as her eyes slide to Stiles, and Stiles can feel himself tense as she lays her attention on him. “Did you find another bitch to warm your bed?”

Derek moves then, suddenly, surging forward with a faint snarl rumbling in his ribcage. Stiles throws an arm across his chest, holds him back, pushes until Derek gives in and relents. Kate laughs, delighted, but there’s a hard edge to it, and when she looks at them again, there’s disappointment written all over her features.

“You let yourself be controlled, Derek?” she asks, _taunts_ , and smirks. “Big, bad wolf turning into a cute little lapdog?” Kate pouts again, tone going belittling. “Are you a _good boy_?”

White hot anger burns a path through Stiles’ veins, leaves him almost shaking with rage. He wants to throw something back at her, make her shut up, but he knows it would make things worse, probably. Derek’s rigid against him.

Stiles takes Derek’s hand again and says, “We need to go,” more to Derek than to her. Kate laughs, a sound that spills down Stiles’ spine and burns like acid. He abandons their cart and pulls Derek with him, away, out.

“Give me a call, and we’ll catch up,” Kate says to Derek when they brush past her.

They drive back to Stiles’ place but Derek disappears as soon as he’s out of the car. Stiles doesn’t know where he goes. It’s not easy to fight back the urge to go running after him, to make sure he’s okay and not about to do anything stupid. Still, Stiles leaves him be, heart heavy with sorrow and worry, and figures Derek needs this, needs to be alone for a little.

Stiles pulls out his phone and calls Erica first. He isn’t sure if she knows about Kate, about any of it, but he wants to warn her anyway. 

She doesn’t answer right away and it takes several rings until she picks up. “Dammit, Stiles, I’m working,” she snaps. Right. He forgot. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, voice sharp suddenly, as if she senses that something’s up. 

“I, um,” he sighs. “I’m not sure if you know—Kate Argent is in Beacon Hills.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What?” Erica sounds furious, voice a booming echo through the phone. So she knows, then.

“We just—I think she followed us to the store. I’m not actually sure,” Stiles says, rambling, feeling like an idiot because it doesn’t even matter. 

“What did she do?” Erica hisses.

Stiles takes a deep breath, tries to shake the disgusting chill that creeps up his vertebrae. “She—I think she tried to rile him up,” Stiles replies, paces around the room. “She taunted him.”

“That _bitch_ ,” Erica spits. Stiles has never heard so much venom in her voice, so much hatred and disgust. “Where’s Derek?”

“He left right after we got back to my place,” Stiles says, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure—”

Erica takes a breath. “Let him,” she instructs him. “He’ll come back. You sit tight until he finds his way back home, and I’ll tell the others.”

“What about Scott?”

“I’m—Derek has to decide himself what he wants Scott to know. I’m gonna warn him about Kate, though.”

Erica hangs up on him after, probably cutting her work short now, and Stiles stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He tries to sit down but he’s too jittery to stay still, so gets up and starts puttering around the kitchen. They didn’t get the groceries, so he’ll have to scramble dinner together with what they have left. 

Derek appears at the back door only a little while later, in his wolf form, uses his claws to make scratching noises until Stiles notices. He trots in when Stiles opens the door, runs up the stairs and Stiles follows him, quiet, worried. Derek changes back in his room, picks up some of Stiles’ clothes that lie around on the floor. Most of them don’t really fit but Derek doesn’t seem to care. On any other day Stiles would tease him, say something about Derek wearing all his stuff out; that if he continues to do that, he’ll never see Stiles wearing anything tight again. 

Derek collapses on the bed, so Stiles lies down beside him. “How are you?” he asks gently, ghosting the palm of his hand over the curve of Derek’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” Derek says, stares at the ceiling, unfocused, far away. And then, “I went to Laura’s grave. Made sure she didn’t—”

“How—?”

“It’s undisturbed,” Derek finishes. His tones gives nothing away but Stiles knows Derek is relieved about it, happy that her grave is still intact. Stiles inches closer to him, slides a hand down Derek’s arm. He’s not sure what to do now, if Derek even wants him to be there with him, wants to be touched. 

“Do you—I can go if you want me to leave,” Stiles suggests carefully, lifting his hand when Derek doesn’t react. 

Derek grabs his wrist mid-air, though, turns his head to look at Stiles. It’s kind of scary how calm he seems, face blank when normally it’s so expressive. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Derek says. He circles his thumb over the pulse point on Stiles’ wrist, a tiny movement, soothing and reassuring. 

Stiles gazes at him, takes his form in, and even though Derek’s face looks closed off there is a raw openness around him, something for which Stiles can’t find the right words. Derek looks like someone who’s on the verge of breaking open; someone who’s desperately fighting not to fall apart. 

So Stiles says, “I’m not going to,” nestles in closer to Derek, curls an arm securely around him, and Derek relaxes against him, breath rushing out of his lungs with a quiet noise.

Stiles stays curled around Derek for a while, listens to his breathing, counts the beats of Derek’s heart under where his palm is spread out over Derek’s chest. It’s all the comfort he can give. Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles can’t begin to guess what’s going on inside his head. 

“She shouldn’t have—I’m sorry she talked to you like that,” Derek says eventually, so quiet it’s almost toneless. 

Stiles tightens his arm around him. “Don’t apologize for what she did or said,” he answers. 

“You’re not—”

“I know.”

“No,” Derek looks at him, and the light of dusk casts dark shadows across his face. “You’re the one who made me feel good about myself again, and I didn’t—there was never a time I thought I could— _feel_ like this again, not before you.”

It’s ridiculous how insanely happy he feels then. Warmth unfurls from deep within Stiles, spreading through his veins, his nerves, sets him alight all over; makes him feel like he accomplished something, something good. He leans in closer, carefully brushes his lips against Derek’s until Derek kisses him, soft and sweet. Tiny shocks of pleasure make his head spin as Derek smiles into the kiss, hands coming up to wind around Stiles’ body as he adjusts his position on the bed. 

Eventually, Derek gets up, calls his pack together. They meet up at Stiles’ place. It’s not a surprise that all four of them appear together, and it’s maybe an instinct to stick together at impending danger; maybe it’s a sense of safety, the security of friends and pack bonds. Stiles thinks that it’s most likely a mix of all. 

Derek tells Scott about Kate, keeps it brief, doesn’t reveal the part about the relationship he had with her. Stiles begins to suspect that no one of them knows about the affair Derek and Kate had. They don’t need to know about it, it doesn’t matter. The fact that Kate used Derek makes it worse; and Derek, so Stiles assumes, still hasn’t forgiven himself; or rather he doesn’t believe none of it was his fault. 

“We should just leave,” Erica says when Derek’s done telling Scott what happened. She frowns heavily, sits close to Derek. Her back is straight, bow string tight with tension, presses her shoulder against Derek’s. There’s so much worry behind Erica’s little gestures, tiny movements, and the way she leans into Derek, brushes against him, is a way of consolation, of sharing pain. Stiles has seen them all doing for Scott when he was still in training; has seen Boyd stick close to Erica when she wasn’t feeling good, and Derek offering comforting touches for Isaac when Boyd’s and Erica’s families were visiting. 

The line around Derek’s mouth tightens. “No.”

“But, Derek—”

“I’m not going to run,” Derek says in a tone that doesn’t allow any further argument. “I’m not letting her chase us out of this town. I don’t want her to think she has any power over me, over us.”

“It’s a risk,” Erica argues while Isaac, Boyd, and Scott sit back. 

“She’s alone,” Derek says, calm, and Erica bristles even more.

“She was alone when—it’s dangerous, Derek. If she comes after us, we can’t defend ourselves. She’ll make it look like we attacked her; they’ll kill us!”

Derek clenches his jaw, closes his eyes briefly on a deep inhale. “If we leave now, she’ll hunt us. She’ll see it as an invitation. This is a game to her. Do you think I don’t know that this is a risk? Leaving won’t make it better. And I don’t want to live a life on the run. I don’t want that for any of you.”

“Derek’s right,” Boyd chimes in, voice a quiet, calming timbre. “It’s probably no coincidence she’s here, so running won’t solve this.”

“So what do we do?” Scott asks, sitting up straighter. 

“Stay put,” Derek orders. “Try to avoid her. If she approaches you, ignore her, don’t let anything she throws at you affect you. It’s the most crucial part. If you lose control, you’re dead. She’s not going to hesitate.”

“That’s not very comforting,” Scott mutters.

“It doesn’t matter. You’d be dead even if you hurt anyone else. Kate’s just not gonna stop to investigate, she’s gonna kill you on the spot.”

Scott doesn’t look better. He slouches on the couch and scrunches up his nose. 

“Scott,” Derek starts. “You know everything you need to control your shift. You know your anchor, you have practice, you know the tricks. It’s gonna be fine. In case of doubt just turn and leave.”

They leave shortly after that, left anxious and unsettled. Stiles catches Scott at the door.

“Dude, it’s gonna be fine,” Stiles assures him. Scott smiles, small. 

“I don’t know, man,” Scott replies shaking his head. “I don’t know her, I don’t even know what she looks like. I don’t know what to expect.”

Stiles looks at him, and Scott doesn’t look convinced of himself, of his own abilities, and Stiles wants to shake some sense into him.

“You’re good at this, Scott,” he says. “You’re doing great during full moons. Kate’s gonna be a piece of cake if it comes down to it. And like Derek said, in case of doubt turn and leave. You can come to me whenever, okay?”

Scott smiles wider now, shows his dimples. He hugs Stiles tightly, mutters a thank you in his ear before letting go, and saunters down the porch; follows the others to Isaac’s car. 

Stiles closes the door behind him, watches Derek from the hallway who is slouching on the couch running his hands over his face. Up close, Derek looks determined, fierce, but, strangely, from afar the air of exhaustion and uncertainty around him is painfully obvious. Seeing Derek like this makes Stiles ache in a way he’s only once experienced before: when his own mother died. Helplessness is a terrible, terrible sensation; something that winds tight around you, destroys you, suffocates you. It cracked Stiles open the first time around. He’s not going to sit by and do nothing this time. This time, at least, he can do something, even if it’s just something small.

He fits perfectly into the groove of Derek’s side, of where his arm is stretched over the back of the couch, and Stiles slots in place, snug against Derek. 

“Do you think she’ll come after them?” he asks quietly as Derek winds his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. 

Derek purses his lips minutely. “I don’t know,” he replies, and seems frustrated with it. “She’s—I can’t predict her actions. The worst part is that I can’t do anything. I can’t—she’s protected by law, by her family, by the hunters. I can’t make her leave.”

Derek’s arm tightens around him, his body a wall of solid warmth against Stiles, and it’s a ridiculous contrast, somehow. 

Stiles isn’t the only one feeling helpless. And Derek, undoubtedly, has it much worse.

College starts up again, and Stiles’ focus shifts. Between attending classes and doing his homework, he doesn’t have a lot of time to do anything else, and Derek seems busy otherwise. It’s been a while since Derek told him that he was thinking about putting his degree in English literature to use, though he didn’t have anything concrete in mind then. The degree was also Laura’s influence, as so many other things, Derek admitted, and Stiles still smiles when he remembers the annoyed fondness with which Derek told him. 

Stiles doesn’t see or hear of Kate, not from Derek or any of the others. It’s still buzzing at the back of his mind, draws his attention in when his thoughts wander away from homework and assignments. There is no way to tell if she is just laying low or if she’s planning something. Stiles knows too little about her. Derek, when Stiles sees him, has always an air of vigilance around him, like he’s anticipating a strike, something, but other than that he doesn’t give away much. 

It’s purely coincidental that Stiles sees them, Kate and Derek. Stiles is off campus, on his way to his lunch date with Scott, when he catches sight of them in front of the video rental store, where Derek probably went to pick up a movie for tonight. 

Kate is up in Derek’s space, and Derek looks like he’s frozen on the spot, clutching the DVD cases in his hand. Stiles is too far away to hear what she says, but Kate’s smiling broadly. She shakes her hair, tilts her head to expose the long line of her neck. The look on Derek’s face would be funny any other time: he’s looks like he barely keeps himself from ripping her head off, and at the same time, he’s pale; his position speaks of panic, like he’s caught between flight and fight. 

Stiles takes his first step towards them when Derek moves, having caught himself, and pushes past her without looking back. Kate laughs, calls something after him, but Derek never stops. Stiles almost follows him, he desperately wants to make it better and close whatever wounds Kate opened again. He knows Kate would see him if he went, and she’d probably use it as more ammunition, make it even worse, so Stiles stays where he is and watches until he sees the Camaro pull out of the parking lot. 

When they meet later that day, Derek smiles at him, soft and sweet, and Stiles doesn’t ask about Kate.

Three days later, Stiles jerks away in the middle of the night at the sound of his phone clattering over the night stand. The vibration is a terrible noise. He rubs at his eyes, grumbles quietly because it’s ass o’clock and he has class early in the morning. 

His bad mood drops the moment he sees it’s Derek calling. 

“Derek,” he says, lump swelling in his throat. 

“I’m at your front door,” Derek says so quietly Stiles has to strain his ears to catch it. “Do you want to let me in?”

Stiles almost falls out of bed in his haste to get off and down the stairs. 

Derek looks miserable. It hits Stiles square in the chest, punches the air right out of his lungs because he hasn’t seen Derek like this. Stiles instinctively grabs for his hands, squeezes gently as Derek steps into the house, shoulders slumped, misery spilling over his face. Derek rarely shows his vulnerability, it’s something he hides from everyone if he can help it. This—it’s bad. 

Wordlessly, Stiles leads Derek upstairs to his room, and Derek moves gracefully through the dark, doesn’t make any noise, and Stiles has to cast glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s really there; even though Derek’s hand is still firmly in his grasp. 

Stiles pulls the covers over them once they lie down on the bed. He traces his fingertips over Derek’s face, watches how Derek’s eyes flutter closed and his eyelashes look like dark smudges against his skin. He looks younger in the dark, not as weighed down by his memories and guilt as in daylight; less like someone who’s constantly fighting to make up for mistakes that aren’t his own. 

“It’s okay,” he tells Derek. “You’re safe. You’re safe here.”

The air audibly rushes out of Derek’s lungs, brushes against Stiles’s face in a cool breeze, and Derek shifts slightly, makes himself smaller. Stiles curls around him, protectively, as Derek buries his nose against Stiles’ collarbones. Stiles can feel his own heart beating against his ribs, wonders how it sounds like to Derek; wonders what it is like to hear someone’s heartbeat. 

Tiny, tiny tremors keep shaking Derek Stiles notices as they lie pressed up against each other. He would’ve missed them if he wasn’t coiled around Derek. 

It’s the tremors and Derek’s boneless form that make him realize how deeply Derek seems to trust him: because Derek is laid bare in bed next to him, in the most unguarded and vulnerable way there is, and he lets Stiles see it; lets him in. 

“She’s here for me,” Derek eventually says into the nook between Stiles’ collarbones, breath ghosting over skin. “She doesn’t care about the others. She’s here for me.”

Stiles cards his fingers gingerly through the hairs on Derek’s nape. He doesn’t know how or when Derek came to that conclusion but he doesn’t want to push either, so he remains silent. 

“She wants to finish what she started,” Derek continues, voice muffled by Stiles’ skin and the fabric of his shirt where Derek’s words catch. 

Derek’s hands flex against Stiles’ back. In the numb quiet of his mind, Stiles wonders why Kate doesn’t just kill Derek, why she keeps taunting him; what she’s waiting for. If she really wanted him dead, wouldn’t she just go for it? Stiles knows too little about her ways to figure it out, come up with a guess. 

A thought enters his head, spills chills down his spine as it settles heavily. “How often did she—did you—how often have you seen her since the first time we ran into her?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away. Stiles feels him huffing breaths against the exposed skin of his shoulder, his collarbones. 

Eventually, Derek admits, “Seven times.”

Stiles almost jumps, hands going stiff against Derek’s scalp as the answer echoes in his head. “Jesus, Derek,” he says, shocked, pained. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He thinks he might know the answer already, but it doesn’t matter. Stiles rather asks that than how Kate has been goading him. 

“There was nothing to tell,” Derek answers. “She’s trying to make me snap, so I ignore her. It’s the only thing I can do.”

“Why is she doing that?”

Derek shrugs half-heartedly. “My best guess is that she wants to have a legitimate reason to kill me,” he says, tone void of any emotion. “I don’t know why she seems to care about it considering she made the fire look like an accident.”

Maybe she thinks cracking Derek’s self-control will get her some kind of personal trophy. Stiles grits his teeth. Derek looks up at him, smoothes a hand over Stiles’ chest in a soothing manner. 

“It’s not going to happen,” Derek promises, hushed, as he traces his palm to Stiles’ back, slips his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt to splay them over the warm skin there. 

They stay quiet for a long time after that. Stiles is hopeful, hopeful that Derek can get over this. He’s also sure that if Kate really wants him dead she probably doesn’t need for Derek to snap. It’s like Derek said himself: she’s made the fire look like an accident. She doesn’t need that for a single werewolf. There’s probably hardly anyone who would question her if she lied about Derek attacking her. 

Stiles shuts the thoughts out of his head. 

“Do you—have you ever thought about getting revenge?”

Derek inhales a breath. “You mean have I ever thought about killing her?”

Stiles doesn’t feel comfortable confirming it out loud. It sounds too much like an implication, like something he didn’t even mean. His silence is answer enough for Derek, though, and Stiles wants to take it back. 

“I have thought about how it would probably make me sleep better at night, knowing that I killed the person who so mercilessly murdered my family,” Derek says. Stiles can’t blame him. “I have.”

“Do you want to—.”

It takes Derek a little while until he eventually answers, and then he says on a breath, “No.”

Stiles swallows down the answer, lets it echo in his mind until he can’t hear it anymore. It isn’t a surprise, not really, but Stiles can’t name, can’t guess Derek’s reasons for why he doesn’t want to take her out. He’s convinced he wouldn’t be able to let it go if this had happened to him, if he was in Derek’s place, but he admires it, this—virtue. It’s not forgiveness, it’s not forgetting. It’s something else entirely, something that Stiles thinks defines Derek as a person. 

“Nothing I could ever do to her would bring them back,” Derek whispers into the space above Stiles’ heart, burns the words into his skin. “It would only turn me into a killer. It would turn me into her.”

 _You didn’t kill innocents_ , Stiles doesn’t say. It’s a true but nevertheless fruitless argument; it’s not the point. 

Instead of responding, Stiles presses a kiss on top of Derek’s head. They fall silent after, and Stiles watches the shadows dance around in his room while the huffs of Derek’s breaths brush through the fabric of his shirt. He’s too deep in his thoughts to fall asleep again, regardless of his early class. 

Guilt creeps up his spine, spreads through his system like acid. He didn’t even consider that Derek ran into Kate—or rather, probably, that she actively sought him out. He was so occupied with his studies, too reassured by Derek’s unsuspicious behaviour that he never stopped to think about it. Stiles swallows against the bitter taste in his mouth, the feeling of having let Derek down. 

Stiles casts a look down at him; can’t stop the smile that slowly spreads across his face when he realizes Derek’s fallen asleep. Gently, Stiles brushes his fingers through Derek’s hair. 

At least Derek is safe with him.

They see each other more often after that, and it’s when Stiles realizes that maybe Derek’d been avoiding him before. Maybe it was the reason why they didn’t spend as much time together, and Stiles wrongly assumed it was because Derek was trying to get some things of his own done. Stiles has had relationships before, so he knows from experience that he’s not one to stick around his partner 24/7. He needs time and space of his own. It would drive him up the wall if he’d spend every free minute of every day with Derek. 

So, Stiles is kind of surprised when they end up staying at each other’s places after Stiles is done with college for the day. It’s different in a way that sometimes they don’t even talk for hours on end; when Stiles is buried in his homework and notes, preparing and evaluating his classes, or spends time messing around on his laptop; all the while Derek reads or putters around his apartment. Stiles has seen several applications around, he knows Derek’s actively looking for a job. 

It’s easy and nice, and Stiles likes that they can spend time with each other without doing something together. He didn’t have that in his previous relationships. Most of the people Stiles dated seriously all wanted and needed attention when they were together, there was no way the silent cohabiting Stiles and Derek have going on would have worked with them. 

Stiles still doesn’t know what Kate said to Derek during their encounters, doesn’t know what exactly it was that made Derek crack, made him come to Stiles and confess what’s been going on. He wants to know, on the one hand, wants to knit together the ragged edges of Derek’s wounds. On the other hand, he’s not sure if he wants to hear all the things Kate’s been throwing at Derek. The one time he witnessed it first hand was a terrible, scarring thing. Everything since must have been a hundred times more aggressive.

Derek doesn’t tell either, but Stiles has come to realize that it’s not because he wants to keep these things to himself but because it’s either too painful to tell, or because he simply wants to forget about it in an attempt to blend Kate out of his reality, to not let her have power over him. 

The second Wednesday in September is warm and sunny, and Stiles is finishing up his homework when Derek saunters into his apartment, wearing loose track pants and a faded out tank top. There are beads of sweat collecting in the hollow between his collarbones, hair sticking to his temples and forehead. Derek looks ridiculously attractive like this. He’s got an opened envelope in his hand, waving it at Stiles with a blinding smile when he spots him.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks, putting his pen down as he gets up. He strides closer to Derek.

“I got an interview,” Derek answers, waves the letter again for emphasis. “In two weeks.”

Stiles grins, wide and happy, before he leans in to kiss him. “Awesome,” he mumbles against Derek’s lips and brushes the hair out of Derek’s face. Derek winds his arms around Stiles’ waist, pulls him closer still, and Stiles loses himself in that feeling for a bit: pressed up against Derek, enveloped in his heat, the scratch of his stubble against Stiles’ skin, the deep affection Derek always puts into his kisses. 

“Bet you’re gonna nail it,” Stiles adds, mischievous, as he leans back and catches Derek roll his eyes. 

Derek hums, smirk spreading across his face when he suggests, “Bet you’re gonna take it well if I do.” He grinds his hips up against Stiles’, and Stiles’ lips open on a voiceless gasp. 

“Could take you for a ride,” Stiles offers in return pressing himself closer to Derek, spreading his legs when Derek pushes a thigh between his knees. He clutches at Derek’s biceps when Derek licks a long stripe across his throat, nips at his jaw. 

“All night long,” Derek agrees, rubbing his thigh against Stiles’ crotch. The friction is perfect, and Stiles bucks his hips. Derek groans, low, soft, and it makes Stiles’ skin tingle. Nobody appreciates Stiles’ puns and innuendos quite as much as Derek does. But then again, nobody is quite as good in returning them as Derek. 

Derek kisses him, frantic and needy, tongue pushing past Stiles’ lips with focused intent. Stiles makes tiny, choked off sounds at the back of his throat, grinding down hard on Derek’s thigh as Derek’s tongue slides smoothly against his own. It’s intoxicating. Stiles’ head swims with the sensations, little shocks run up and down his spine. 

And just like that, Derek pulls away, wedges his thigh from between Stiles’ legs and steps back. His hair is a mess, lips reddened and a little swollen, and the letter looks a little worse for wear. 

“Why are you stopping?” Stiles doesn’t whine. His voice just catches a little.

“Because there’s no reason to celebrate yet.”

Stiles snorts. “As if we need a reason to _celebrate_ ,” he points out. He really shouldn’t emphasize that, it’ll only condition him and then he won’t be able to hear anything but innuendo whenever someone uses that word. 

“We don’t,” Derek agrees easily straightening out the letter. “But you,” he flicks his eyes over Stiles appraisingly, “aren’t done with your homework yet.”

“Well, _Professor Hale_ , will I get a reward for finishing my homework?” Stiles asks. He enjoys the way Derek’s eyes go dark when he watches Stiles’ hand trail up, taking the hem of the shirt with it; exposing a stripe of skin. Derek’s eyes snap back up to his face.

“If by reward you mean more homework, yes, absolutely,” Derek answers loftily. He strides past Stiles to put the letter down on the table, places his phone next to it. Stiles juts his bottom lip out but Derek’s completely unfazed. He’s smirking, satisfied with himself, the ass. 

“No fair,” Stiles complains, crossing his arms over his chest.

Derek walks up to him, brushes his knuckles gently over Stiles’ cheekbone, and Stiles can’t help the way his eyes flutter shut. 

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Derek says as he traces his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. He leans in for a quick kiss that sparks down to Stiles’ toes still. 

“Better make it good,” Stiles grumbles.

“When did I not?”

“You give yourself too much credit.”

“I’ve never heard you complain before.”

“It’s because I always give you bonus points for trying.”

“You’re so generous.”

Stiles smiles sweetly. “See? What wouldn’t I do for you?”

Derek rolls his eyes but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth is stupidly fond. “Gonna take a shower,” Derek informs him and Stiles waves him away before sitting down at the desk again to finish his stuff. 

He’s not even five minutes in when Derek’s phone goes off. The display flashes Boyd’s name. Stiles picks it up, considers for a second and decides to take the call.

“Derek’s phone,” he answers with a grin. He knows if it were Isaac or Erica they’d probably groan in staged exasperation. Boyd only ever seems slightly amused if anything. 

“Oh,” a female voice greets him, and it takes Stiles a second to realize where he’s heard it before. “Sweetie, don’t you know that Derek doesn’t like people...taking his personal stuff?”

Kate sounds disgustingly cheerful but it’s sharp and cold, cutting right through Stiles in a way he didn’t know was possible. 

Stiles casts a quick glance at the bathroom door, hears water running, but decides to go into the kitchen anyway. He turns on the faucet. If Derek really wanted to listen, he’d hear anyway but with the shower and the faucet in the kitchen running, it should be enough to blend it out. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks. He flexes his fingers nervously against the countertop, trying to parse out what Kate is doing with Boyd’s phone. 

“I want to talk to Derek,” Kate answers easily. She sounds almost bored. 

“Derek’s busy. How about you talk to me instead?” he replies, grinds his teeth because this can’t be good. 

She chuckles lightly; the sounds goes straight through Stiles, chills him to the bone. “It’s cute how you’re trying to swoop in and save poor, little Derek from me.”

Stiles takes a breath. 

“You can’t help him,” Kate continues, voice smooth and cold. “You’re merely a distraction. You think you can _love_ it all away? Derek won’t let this go, ever. No matter what you do, or what he does, I’ll always be there, forever in his head, reminding him of what he did.”

She sounds endlessly satisfied about it, and Stiles wants to claw her face off. He feels sick and disgusted by her; by how a single person can be so cruel to someone innocent. The way she blames Derek causes a riot in Stiles’ head and he desperately wants to argue about it. It wouldn’t be of any use though. Kate is too far gone on her worldview on werewolves to even consider it a possibility that she might be wrong. 

“I love how much he hates me, honey,” she purrs into the phone. “It’ll make the victory so much sweeter in the end.”

“People like you don’t win,” Stiles says, feels stupid right after because he sounds like a Disney princess; like he’s built the illusion of a perfect world. 

Kate laughs at him. “Oh, sweetie,” her voice is sharply soft, and Stiles hates how the endearment slides down his vertebrae peeling the skin right off his flesh. “I’ve already won.”

Stiles is at a loss of words, doesn’t want to disagree with her because nothing he could say would be strong enough. He hates it, the way Kate leaves him speechless; the way she makes his insides churn with dread.

“Anyway, be a doll, tell Derek to come to his burned out shell of a childhood home if he wants to save his puppies,” Kate says, bored again, and hangs up without another word. 

Stiles clutches the phone to his ear even after the line is disconnected. He feels detached and far away, like he’s watching himself. Slowly, he reaches out to turn the faucet off. 

He walks back into the living room. The water in the bathroom shuts off, and Derek’s whistling, some slow, melodic tune that Stiles doesn’t recognize. He’s never heard Derek whistle before. It wedges like a knife between his ribs, and Stiles wonders how the hell he went from being happy, content to feeling like he’s watching a freight train coming at him. 

Stiles stares at the bathroom door, hears Derek knocking around behind it. Gingerly, he puts the phone down on the desk, frowns down at where his hand still covers the screen. Then, he pulls out a blank sheet, takes a pencil and juts down a note for Derek.

_Got a meeting for an assignment on short notice. Be back later. —S_

He pats himself down to check for his phone, wallet and keys before he heads out. 

It isn’t until he’s halfway to the old Hale house that Stiles realizes how utterly stupid this is. He’s up against a trained hunter who managed to take out a whole bunch of werewolves, single-handedly, it seems, and he has no idea what she’s planning on doing. Objectively, he probably has no chance against Kate, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try. Derek’s going to be pissed at him when he finds out, though Stiles isn’t really worrying about that now. The thought of telling Derek about this repels him on a deep, basic level. 

And if Kate gets Derek into her clutches, she truly has won. 

Stiles flies out of the car as soon as he’s there, doesn’t even bother to pull the key from the ignition. Kate is sitting on the steps of the porch, twirling a wolfsbane flower between her fingers. Something—a kind of weapon, Stiles’ guesses—lies in her lap. Her face doesn’t change when her eyes fall on him but she sighs put upon and gets up, curling her fingers around the stun gun. 

In front of the house, Scott, Isaac, Erica and Boyd are lying eerily still. Stiles trips in his haste to get to them, drops down next to his best friend. They’re all still breathing, however, they’re unconscious, and Stiles—despite knowing about Kate—wonders how she managed to take them all out without a single scratch on her. 

“I take it you didn’t pass my message on to Derek,” Kate drawls as she steps around him, nudges Boyd with her foot until he rolls from his side on his back. 

“You wish,” Stiles snaps at her, tries to shield his friends’ bodies with his own. She smiles down at him, a bright, cruel twist to her mouth that seems to strip Stiles of his skin. 

“I do indeed,” she concedes, comes around to stop in front of him. One of her hands comes down to cup Stiles’ chin. He tries to jerk away from her grasp but she holds on tightly, digs her nails into his skin. 

“Aren’t you a pretty one,” Kate ponders, eyes roaming Stiles’ face contemplatively. She turns his face slightly to the side and Stiles can’t do anything but follow the motion. “I see why Derek would go for someone like you.”

Stiles doesn’t like the implication in her tone. “What are you talking about?”

Kate lets go of him, lips stretching over her teeth as she smiles at him again. “Well,” she starts tilting her head. “You know, cute and bright-eyed, new and exciting. The heartbreaker type.”

“I’m not—”

“They never are,” Kate interrupts him, waves her hand dismissively. “Tell me, isn’t Derek the perfect lover?”

Stiles goes rigid, and Kate beams. “Selfless, isn’t he? And so eager to please,” she goes on, turning on her heel and walks a few steps like she has nothing better to do. “He’s so good at it, too.”

He feels like vomiting all over her. It’s like a deep ache that settles inside of him, in his lungs, makes it hard to breathe, when she talks about Derek like he’s an object, a thing for her to play with and then drop. 

“But, you know, you just have at it until it gets boring. Until you’ve had your fun, until you realize that he’s just a huge sap and a _bore_ , and then you move on to other, more exciting things. Did he offer you his heart on a golden plate yet?”

Stiles wants to strangle her. He’s never been one for violence, not like this, not like how he feels it now: etching through his veins and burning a path through his body. There’s a terrifying urge in him that wants to see her suffer for what she did, for how she still treats Derek. 

“I’m not you,” is what Stiles eventually manages to reply, grinding his teeth so hard it hurts. “I’m nothing like you.”

Kate turns around to face him again. “Yeah, you’re just as soft and spineless as he is.”

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles asks her, can’t not do it, even though he half knows the answer, and half doesn’t want to know all of it.

“Oh, sweetie, isn’t it obvious?” she says, innocent, and it’s easy to mistake her smile and the sparks in her eyes for warm sincerity. “I want to reunite him with his family.”

It would be such an innocuous statement under different circumstances. Bile rises at the back of Stiles’ throat and he swallows down the taste, but it makes it worse. He closes his eyes for a split second, takes a deep breath. 

“It’s really disappointing, how he doesn’t put up a fight. This could’ve been so much more entertaining,” she goes on, striding past him. “It’s going to be beautiful anyway.”

Stiles doesn’t dwell on how sick Kate is because Erica slowly stirs awake. She huffs out a pained sound, rolls onto her back and blinks her eyes open. Kate turns to cut a quick look at her, but other than that she doesn’t seem bothered or concerned. Stiles scrambles over to where Erica lies, pushes a stray lock of hair out of the corner of her mouth, helps her sit up. She’s trembling slightly, like it puts a strain on her to move. 

“You okay?” Stiles asks her, and Erica sags against him.

She nods, says, “Yeah,” but it’s obvious she feel weak, a little disoriented maybe. Her eyes lock on Kate, though, and low, dark sound emits from her throat. An amused smile stretches over Kate’s face as she draws nearer again.

“Look who’s up,” she chirps, props the stun gun up on her hip. “Took you long enough.”

Erica leaps at her, but Kate moves like she saw it coming, brings up the stun gun and catches Erica easily. There’s a sharp outcry of pain before Erica lies on the floor again, curling in on herself while Kate circles her, stares down at her with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

“So much to being a predator,” Kate muses, comes to stand right above Erica. “Look at you, whimpering in pain. All it takes to knock you out is a little bit of wolfsbane, a little bit of electric current, and it’s enough to turn you into a helpless heap of meat and bones.”

“It’s not hard to defeat someone who’s down already,” Derek’s voice says from behind Stiles. He whips around at the same time Kate’s head snaps up. He walks up to them, slowly, but Stiles sees the tension in his body language. “It doesn’t make you strong. It makes you a coward.”

Kate rolls her eyes, but she’s delighted. The smile on her face grows wider again as she carelessly steps over Erica towards Derek. Stiles wants to put himself between him and her, but this isn’t his fight, it never was. He can’t protect Derek from this, from her. Kate will always find a way under Derek’s skin, and there’s nothing Stiles can do about it.

The way Kate curls her lips, tilts her head sends shivers through Stiles’ body. “Oh, I remember your mom put up a pretty impressive fight.”

Stiles is sure he’s going to throw up right then and there. Derek freezes minutely before he clenches his hands into fists so hard the skin over his knuckles turns white. 

“It’s kinda hard to fight with an arrow lodged against your heart, though,” Kate continues as she slowly makes her way over to Derek. Her words hit right where she wants them to, and Stiles watches in horror as Derek can’t do anything but take it, motionless. “And then she was down, on her knees, right in front of me: the powerful Hale Alpha. She didn’t beg, not the way your little sister did. What was her name? Cora?”

Derek’s nostrils flare but he stays still, muscles locked tight. Kate circles him, watches him sharply, and she’s still trying to break him. 

“What are you going to do, Derek?” she asks, tone low, voice snide, cruel. 

Derek looks at her, unmoving, and doesn’t say anything. Kate sighs, put out. 

“You never were much fun, weren’t you?” Kate says. “Do you really think any of this,” she motions around, motions a hand between them, “is ever going to go away? You can’t escape this, Derek.”

“You think you can make me break? So you can say you had a legitimate reason to kill me?” Derek answers tersely. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Sweetie, I broke you a long time ago. I stuck a knife between your ribs and all I’ve ever done since that is wedge it deeper. I don’t need you to come at me, so I can kill you. But I do want to see you lose. I want to take away the last thing you’re so tightly holding on to: your control,” Kate explains, easily, gleefully, and Stiles holds Erica as she struggles to get up again. Derek looks away from Kate, mouth set in a tight line. His gaze locks on Stiles and Erica.

Stiles holds on to her tightly, squeezes Erica’s hand when she grabs for his, and it’s painful but grounding. Derek glances at Scott, Isaac, and Boyd who are coming to again too. 

“If you want me, what are you doing with them?” 

“Haven’t you figured it out by now?” Kate sounds almost disappointed. “You didn’t meet me halfway, so I thought you needed some motivation. You just can’t get one thing right, can you?”

Derek’s jaw clenches, and Erica starts struggling in Stiles’ arms again. Kate stands still, like she’s waiting for something. It’s quiet save for the guys shuffling a little as they prop themselves up, dizzy and uncoordinated. 

Derek’s hands are still clenched into fists, body coiled tight. He holds himself upright, but Stiles can see the cracks in his facade. Kate’s strikes are precise, inflicting maximum damage with only a couple of carefully chosen words. It’s a painful realization to Stiles, but she knows exactly where Derek’s weak spots are, all of them; and she isn’t afraid to use that knowledge. She applies just the right amount of pressure to split Derek open to the core. 

The smile slides right off Kate’s face and is replaced with something else: impatience and hatred. She slings the stun gun over her shoulder as she walks up to where Scott, Boyd, and Isaac are lying. 

Kate pulls a gun from the waistband of her jeans, turns off the safety in a swift motion. She buries a hand in Scott’s hair, pulls him up, and Scott makes a strangled noise. He doesn’t put up much of a fight, still weak from whatever Kate did to him before, and Stiles leaps at her unthinkingly. 

She pivots to the side, uses the moment Stiles loses his footing to push him away, using the flat of the gun for additional painful pressure. Stiles stumbles and falls, surprised by her unexpected strength. She spares him a quick smirk, and Stiles wants to go again, but Kate brings the gun up against Scott’s temple, finger curling around the trigger. He doesn’t dare to advance on her, too afraid she might shoot Scott. 

Derek is staring at her with abject horror. He curls and uncurls his hands, muscles in his forearms flexing with the motion. It’s not only his control that’s holding him back now but fear. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kate says, pushes the barrel of the gun tight against Scott’s skull, and he lets out a small, pained sound. “This is even better. Here you are, losing your family all over again.”

Derek’s growl startles a flock of birds out of the woods, echoes through the clearing of the house. It’s loud; louder than Stiles would have imagined it being, and it’s terrifying. Stiles has never been actually scared of Derek but he is now. The sound booms in his ears, coats him in goosebumps and raises the hairs on his neck. 

It’s the first time Derek reacts to Kate in an aggressive manner, without restraint, without holding back. 

The most disturbing thing, though, is how Kate’s face completely lights up. 

Derek is on her way faster than Stiles can actually follow, low grumble loud against the otherwise quiet preserve. Kate releases her grip on Scott and he sags down, scrambles away weakly as Derek grabs for her gun and pries it out of her hand. He throws the weapon away.

Kate uses the time to bring up the stun gun, but Derek curls a hand around the top, yanks at it until the strap gives. Kate bucks forward with the momentum, lets out a surprised noise. Something changes on her face when Derek snaps the stun gun in half, drops it carelessly to the floor. She doesn’t look scared per se, yet the smile is gone, eyes narrowed. It’s realization. She pushed far enough, got the result she was waiting for, though Stiles can tell by the expression on her face that this isn’t exactly how she pictured things going. 

Derek picks her up effortlessly, tosses her several feet away like she’s made of nothing. Stiles can see her scrambling on the ground, stretching to reach the gun that Derek threw away in the same direction. She turns with a triumphant smile.

Kate twists when Derek’s suddenly cowering over her, points the gun at his temple. Stiles can’t see Derek’s face but there’s another snarl, and Kate bares her teeth at him. Derek grabs her arm quickly, claws sharp against the delicate skin of her wrist, and twists, squeezes, until there’s an ugly snapping sound. Kate cries out in pain as the gun falls from her limp hand. Derek kicks it away.

Her breath comes out ragged now, sharp intakes of air against the pain. Derek towers over her, claws twitching slightly.

Stiles gets up slowly, looks at where Derek stares down at Kate, and she looks up at him. Her face is contorted in pain but there’s defiance in the way she holds up her chin. 

“Derek,” Stiles says quietly, takes a careful step towards him. Derek turns his head slightly, eyes never leaving Kate, though he turns his attention to Stiles. 

An endless, tense moment later Derek steps away from Kate, rolls his shoulders as he turns to walk towards Stiles. Stiles releases the breath he was holding, closes his eyes for a split second. He casts a look at the others. They’re huddled together, still weak, and Stiles walks over to them. Erica grabs his hand when he reaches for them, squeezes gently.

Kate starts laughing then, drops back down on her back, spread out on the forest floor. She sits back up, carefully avoiding putting weight on her crushed wrist. The smile on her lips is wicked, twisting her face into a terrifying mask.

“Do you really think you can walk away from me, Derek?” she asks. “I will find you, and I will kill you.”

Derek doesn’t falter, he keeps walking, claws gone from his fingers. 

“But before I’ll kill you, I’ll kill the bunch of mutts you call your family.”

Derek stops. 

“Have they been tortured before?” Kate lets out another laugh. “How much do you think can they take before they beg to be put out of their misery?”

Derek’s lips pull back over his teeth in a dangerous snarl, eyes flaring bright red as he turns back around to her. Erica’s nails dig into Stiles’ hand. 

Kate throws her head back when Derek comes to stand over her again, smirk growing. “I’m going to put them down. One by one. And I’m going to make you watch.”

It happens so fast that Stiles doesn’t realize what’s going on. There’s a wet tearing noise, a choked off sound, and Kate’s body drops limply to the floor. Blood gushes out of the gashes on her throat, her eyes wide open and unblinking. 

His heart is suddenly stuck in his throat, he can’t breathe around it. Derek’s hand is covered in blood, it drips off his claws, and he’s staring down at Kate’s body, not moving at all. 

The silence around them is eerie. Stiles can’t feel his hand where Erica is still squeezing it. Realization slowly trickles in, coats Stiles in chills that make him shake. He swallows several times but it doesn’t help him breathe easier.

Derek falls down on his knees, flexes his hands as he stares at them; claws gone again. Stiles rushes over to him, frames Derek’s face with his hands, tilts his head so he looks at Stiles. 

Stiles has no idea what to do, what to say. This whole situation seems surreal, but the sheer panic and disbelief on Derek’s face slams through him. 

This is real. This is happening. 

“What did I do?” Derek’s voice is barely a whisper. He looks down at his blood-coated hands and back up at Stiles, and he looks scared and lost, like he doesn’t trust himself; wishing this was a bad dream. Stiles feels his heart beat in a painful staccato against his ribs. He feels lost himself, so he does the first thing his body signals him to do: he gathers Derek close, pushes his head against his own neck and buries a hand in Derek’s hair. Stiles rocks them back and forth, keeps his eyes studiously off Kate’s body.

Erica’s voice wafts over him. “We need to leave. Now.”

So they do. It’s a blur, Stiles can’t recall any of it. He manages to focus on driving the jeep but it flies past him. When he steps into his house, somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s just witnessed Derek kill somebody. It doesn’t feel different from any other day at all, and it freaks Stiles out. 

Erica ushers Derek past him and into the bathroom, pulling him along like he’s a puppet. Derek seems far away, disconnected from his surroundings. Stiles wants to help but he has no idea what to do. 

The moment he snaps back into focus, his minds starts firing away at him. Derek’s just killed somebody. Not just somebody but a hunter from a prestigious and well-known hunter family; he’s a werewolf. They’re gonna come after him. Hunters, law enforcement. It doesn’t even matter because the bottom line is that Derek’s gonna get killed for what he did. No one’s going to ask questions, no one’s going to investigate what Kate did to his family, how she taunted Derek. 

Stiles doesn’t even realize until much, much later that Kate was deliberately driving Derek to killing her. She was vulnerable and defenseless at the time, she knew he could rip her apart if she kept coming at him. And yet, it was probably her final victory over him. She made him kill her, and it’s something that will stick to Derek forever. 

Derek looks a little less pale when he comes back with Erica. The air is thick with tension. Stiles sits down on the couch next to Scott, they press up against each other seeking comfort in each other’s body heat. They share a quick look full of uncertainty. It eases some of the coiled panic in Stiles’ gut, makes him relax against his best friend. 

The sun is slowly setting, light dim in the living room; shadows pitch black and long. 

Erica is the first to break the screaming silence between them. “Derek, you need to leave. You need to leave ASAP.”

“Where is he supposed to go?” Isaac asks. Erica paces around the room while Derek drops into the armchair, looking like he wants nothing more than to block it all out, pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Anywhere. It doesn’t matter,” Erica answers, turns to look at Derek. “You need to go. They’ll find her, they’ll know you killed her, and then they’ll kill you.”

“We could get rid of her body,” Isaac suggests, stone-cold, and Stiles startles at the blank expression on his face. “Deposit it somewhere where nobody will find it.”

“She’s an Argent,” Boyd cuts in, calm. “I bet she’s been in contact with someone. They will notice and they’ll come looking.”

“Exactly,” Erica nods, crosses her arms over her chest; drops them the next second. “There is no way out of this. It’s only a matter of time until someone notices and soon as they do, it’s open hunting season and Derek’s the target.”

“Maybe they won’t know it was Derek,” Scott chimes in. “There’s no proof. Nobody there to witness it beside us.”

Boyd turns to look at him. “There are claw marks on her throat. And if she really was in contact with someone, they’ll know she was here for Derek.”

Stiles raises his voice before Erica can add to what Boyd said. “But how can they decide from only claw marks that it was Derek? It could’ve easily been one of you guys.”

They all shoot him unimpressed looks. 

“Because there’s no reason for Kate to come after us,” Erica explains, and yeah, it makes sense. “Plus, this is where all of the other Hales died, too.”

“He’s also the only one with a real motive,” Isaac adds, cuts a glance at Derek. 

No one sounds happy about it. These aren’t accusations. It’s still hard not to argue, but Stiles keeps his mouth shut. Derek keeps his head bowed, looks at his hands, threads his fingers. 

The room falls silent as they look at him, at their Alpha. There’s something in the way Erica slides her hand over Derek’s shoulder, the way Isaac and Boyd look at him. Stiles can’t name it. It’s something between the four of them, the bond they’ve built together over the past couple of years that even Scott isn’t really part of yet. 

Erica squeezes Derek’s shoulder, and Stiles knows: they want him safe, no matter at what cost. 

“Derek,” Erica eventually says after a long pause. Derek looks up at her after a moment, grabs her hand gently, curls his fingers around her wrist.

“They’re your responsibility now,” Derek says as he gets up, and Erica’s eyes grow huge. She tries to jerk her hand away but Derek holds on. “I can’t make you, but you’ll be an Alpha if you choose to accept it. I know you can do it.”

“I—You are our Alpha, you’ll always be.”

Derek shakes his head. “You can’t stay without an Alpha for too long,” he goes on, turns and looks and each and every one of them before he focuses back on Erica. “I trust you to take care of them.”

He lets go of her hand then, steps away while Erica stands there, with her hand still raised, in pure disbelief. 

“You need to be careful once the other hunters and law enforcement get wind of this,” Derek says. “They’re gonna interrogate you about me, ask what you know, what happened. It’s probable that they won’t be very nice about it. It’s vital that you keep yourself anchored at all times. If you slip up—”

“We’re not going to give you away,” Isaac says.

“That’s not what I meant. If you turn on them, they won’t hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes. Keep that in mind.”

Derek turns, disappears into the kitchen, and Stiles jumps up to follow him. He hears the others starting to talk when he slips past them. Derek is with his back to him, braced against the countertop with his hands. 

“You’re leaving?”

“I have no other choice.”

Stiles thinks he can maybe hear his heart break. He lifts his hand to touch Derek but drops it again. 

“Where are you gonna go?”

Derek shrugs without turning around to him, it’s a helpless gesture, like he hasn’t wrapped his mind around the whole situation himself. “I don’t know,” he answers, quiet and unsure. 

Slowly, Derek turns around to look at him. The vast helplessness mirroring on his face leaves Stiles speechless. Derek tilts his head down, avoiding eye contact again when Stiles’ heart stutters suddenly, stumbles over the realization that Derek will never be able to come back from this. The thought winds itself around Stiles’ ribcage and squeezes the air right out of him. 

Stiles leans back against the fridge. He inhales carefully, tries to keep himself from shaking. 

Derek’s going to be alone in this. He’s just build himself a family again, found people he can trust; who trust him, and he has to leave it all behind again. The amount of injustice in this overwhelms Stiles, summons anger from deep inside of him that makes him clench his hands into fists. Derek of all people doesn’t deserve this. 

Stiles bumps his head against the fridge, closes his eyes for a moment to try and even out his breathing. 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s so easy. He has only this. It’s the only thing he can offer.

He steps up to Derek, curls his hands into his shirt until Derek meets his eyes. Stiles leans in to kiss him softly.

“I’m coming with you.”

Derek freezes before his hands come up, close around Stiles’ wrists and pull them away from his chest. “You’re definitely not,” Derek replies, gentle, with a sad smile around the corner of his mouth. 

“Yes, I am,” Stiles insists, won’t back down. Derek’s not going to agree easily. “I can’t leave you alone. This isn’t fair.”

“Stiles,” Derek starts, firm, and locks his eyes on Stiles’. “This isn’t a field trip. I can’t—I’m not going to let you suffer the consequences of my mistakes.”

“You’re not, okay. This is my decision, I want this.”

“Your father—”

“My dad won’t be alone. Not like you,” Stiles says, though his voice almost breaks. “He has Scott, and Ms. McCall, and—the guys. He’s going to be fine. He’s not going to be alone.”

“I can’t ask this of you.”

“You’re not asking anything of me. This isn’t me trying to convince you to let me come with you, this is me having made a choice, and I choose you. Nothing you can say or do will change anything about that.”

Derek’s lips thin into a line, his face closes off. “This isn’t an epic love story—”

Of course it’s his first instinct to push Stiles away. 

“I know,” Stiles cuts in sharply. “Stop doing that. Stop trying to hurt me because you think you need to do this to drive me away.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced. He stays quiet, though, eyes intently focused on Stiles.

“You don’t deserve this, Derek, you don’t deserve to be alone in this. I can’t do anything else. I can only do this. I can only offer you my company, and hope that it’ll help you a little.”

Derek just looks at him for several endless moments. He pulls Stiles in then, kisses him like it’s the only thing he’ll ever do. It’s frantic, desperate; it hurts Stiles in a way that runs deeper than physical pain, because Derek kisses him like it’s an apology; like he’s apologizing for agreeing. Derek pulls back, cups Stiles’ face in his hands, brushing his thumbs under Stiles’ eyes. Stiles turns his head a little, presses a kiss against the open palm of Derek’s hand in silent reassurance.

“Pack some stuff,” Derek says quietly. “Meet me at the old distillery in an hour. We need to get as much of a head start as we can.”

Stiles nods, and Derek leans in to kiss him again. It’s short and hard, then Derek lets him go, walks out of the kitchen. He goes back into the living room, explains in a few short words how they’re going to go from here. None of them put up a fight, leave when Derek tells them to. Derek brushes past him, plants another kiss on Stiles’ lips before he disappears, too.

Stiles doesn’t raise his voice as he says, “If you leave without me, I’ll come find you.” 

The front door shuts with a soft click. Stiles bounds up the stairs to his bedroom to start packing. He doesn’t have much time.

He jumps when he finds Scott sitting on his bed. The window is open. 

“You’re really going with him,” Scott states evenly. Stiles is taken aback for a moment, but he catches himself fast enough, and walks over to his closet to get a bag. “Are you sure about this?”

“Scott,” Stiles says, turns around with a duffel bag in his hands. “I really don’t have time for this.”

Scott is off the bed so fast Stiles doesn’t even see him moving. He’s being grabbed, Scott holds him tight, looking at him seriously. His No Bullshit Face puts the fear of God in Stiles, it’s terrifying. 

“Then make time,” Scott says in a tone that doesn’t allow any argument. Stiles stills, stares back at his best friend. “Do you even realize what you’re giving up? There’s no coming back from this. Not unless you’re willing to sacrifice Derek.”

“I’m not going to sacrifice Derek for anything.”

“That’s the point.”

“I made my decision, Scott,” Stiles says with conviction. Scott lets him go but doesn’t step back. 

“You’re—”

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Stiles snaps, because really, he can’t have this right now; he can’t argue with Scott about this, not when this is possibly the last time they’ll see each other, maybe even the last time they’ll talk to each other. “I’m—my dad, and—you. But Derek’s completely alone. He’s just got this back: a family, a pack. He’s just started building up a life again. This is unfair, and I can’t—he’s alone, Scotty, you guys are the only thing he has left, and now he has to give you up too. This sucks, okay, it does. If there was a way that we could stay, or come back, without anyone shooting Derek on the spot—I’d do it. So, please, please understand that I can’t fight about this with you now.”

“I just don’t want to lose you,” Scott admits, drops down on the bed again.

“You’re never gonna lose me, buddy, you know that, right?”

Scott looks up at him, smiles genuinely. Stiles holds on for a second, struck by the thought that this may be the last time he sees Scott. It turns his stomach, but Stiles clenches his jaw and starts throwing clothes into the bag. 

Scott helps him pack, gets stuff from the bathroom, hands some stuff over Stiles might need. They swoop through the house looking for other things that might come in handy, collect a few other things along the way. 

They drive up to the distillery together. Derek’s already there, surrounded by his pack, by his family, and they all look less than eager. Derek takes Stiles’ bag, puts it on the back seat of the Camaro. 

Stiles swallows down the lump building in his throat, blinks away the tears that threaten to spill over. When he woke up this morning, he never would’ve guessed this day would take such a turn. But morning seems so far away, like it happened a decade ago, maybe even a lifetime ago. The surreality of it all makes his head swim. 

He finds himself hugging Erica tightly, makes her promise to look after his dad, and promises to look after Derek in return. She snuffles quietly in his ear, but when Stiles pulls back, she isn’t crying. Boyd’s and Isaac’s hugs, the first he ever gets from both, are firm, strong, reassuring. Isaac claps him on the shoulder in a brotherly way, and Boyd gives him a tight but sincere smile. 

Scott almost crushes his bones when they hug. Stiles doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to leave them behind. He hears his own blood rushing in his ears, body jittery with anxiety. Scott promises to watch out for Dad, promises that everyone back in Beacon Hills will be fine. Stiles can’t do anything but nod, grateful for the way Scott understands him without words. They pull back, and Stiles can’t breathe, can’t stand to look at them knowing they probably won’t see each other again. 

“Take care of yourself,” Scott says, to Stiles, to Derek. “Be safe.”

Stiles scrambles into Derek’s car, jerks a little when Derek turns the key in the ignition. 

Stiles sits on his knees facing the rear window looking at them for as long as possible, until they’re too far away, until she shadows swallow them and he can’t see them anymore. His friends. The people who grew to be his family too.

He turns around in the seat and buckles up.

“We should go see your dad before we leave town,” Derek suggests quietly, carefully.

Stiles shakes his head, sucks in a tight breath. “No, I—can’t. If I see him now, I—I won’t be able to leave with you.”

Derek nods slightly. Stiles pulls out his phone, though, knowing full well he has to ditch it sooner than later. It’s the least thing he can do, calling his father, even if it can never make up seeing him face to face.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says weakly when his father picks up. 

“What’s wrong?” Dad asks immediately, and Stiles doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

He doesn’t even know what to say. So he takes a deep breath first. “Look, Dad, something’s happened.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Do you remember how you told me you thought that the Hale fire wasn’t an accident?” Stiles says quickly. His dad deserves an explanation, at least. 

“Yes. What’s your point?” His father sounds sharp, appraising.

“You were right, it wasn’t an accident. A hunter trapped them all in the basement and burned the house down around them. Her name was Kate Argent.”

“How do you know that?”

“Derek told me,” Stiles answers. “Look, Dad, the point is that Kate killed the Hales, she burned down the house and she killed Laura. She came back into town a few days ago, she started coming after Derek, because that was her endgame. You know, killing the last one of the Hales.”

Dad doesn’t say anything, though his silence spills chills down Stiles’ spine. 

“She—she threatened the others earlier today. _Took_ them specifically to get Derek to come at her. And—he—she was serious about it. It weren’t empty threats.”

“He killed her,” Dad deduces, voice flat.

Stiles winces, cuts a quick glance at Derek who keeps his eyes firmly on the road. “He didn’t want to. Trust me, I know he didn’t want to, but she left him no choice.”

“What’s the point of this call, Stiles?” Dad asks. He sounds calm, but it’s his interrogatory voice. He knows this isn’t what the call is about. Stiles bites his lip.

“I’m—Derek has to leave. He can’t stay in Beacon Hills. It’s just a matter of time until someone finds out, and they’ll come after him. And I—I’m going with him.”

There’s a beat of silence during which Dad exhales audibly. Then, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Dad—”

“Are you seriously throwing your life away for this—for _him_?” The way he makes it sound cuts straight through Stiles. It hurts much more than he could’ve imagined. The scornful manner in which Dad talks about Derek now comes as a surprise. Dad’s always been open toward him, accepted him in Stiles’ life as much as he accepted him in his own. There was never a sign that he didn’t like Derek.

“You’ve known him for what? Barely a year. This isn’t—”

“Dad,” Stiles says again, harsher now, as he’s biting back tears, forcing his voice to stay steady. “You know him. No matter what you’re gonna hear in the next couple of—days, weeks, whatever. Remember that you know Derek, and he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Do you even realize what you’re giving up? If you leave now—”

“You—” Stiles chokes back a sob. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. I’m gonna miss you.”

“Stiles—”

“Love you, Dad.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, ends the call instead and turns his phone off. Stiles brushes a hand over his eyes, takes a couple of deep breaths. Derek gently twines their fingers together between them, rubs soothing circles into Stiles’ skin. It’s not much, but it grounds him, helps him settle in his bones until he is calm again.

The Camaro’s headlights illuminate the road ahead, though it’s not enough and it still seems like everything that’s farther away disappears into a black hole. Stiles tries not to take it as an omen or a metaphor. 

He’s not alone, though, and he knows as long as he’s with Derek he’ll manage.

Stiles rolls down the window on his side, tosses his phone out, watches it disappear into the pitch black night. 

He looks up into the sky. There’s no moon tonight. 

***

Stiles stares into the barrel of the gun, sees how the guy curls his index finger around the trigger. He doesn’t close his eyes, he won’t abject himself to them. Derek makes growly sounds, and Stiles feels him struggling to get up but he reaches behind himself, burying a hand in Derek’s fur. Stiles can’t help but hold his breath. His vision is still not clear, his head is pounding in a way that makes him want to lie down and hibernate, and all he can think about is how this just can’t be the end. He knows it isn’t, at least not for Derek. They’ll take him, heal him from the wolfsbane wound, probably, and electrocute him instead; they’ll take him to Argent, and—Stiles doesn’t even want to think about what he will do to Derek.

The hunter drops to the ground, with a dart sticking out of his neck.

There is a moment of total silence and confusion, and then another hunter drops, and another, and another. Stiles feels horror rising up in him again. He whips around to Derek—regretting the hurried motion, because pain surges through his head again—to find him shifted back to human.

“Come on,” Stiles says hoarsely and helps Derek get up on his feet. “We need to leave.”

“You’re hurt,” Derek points out, voice on the edge between furiously concerned and downright murderous.

“You’re hurt too. And naked. You win. Let’s go.”

He turns to see the last hunter fall unconsciously to the ground. The wound in Derek’s shoulder still oozes out blue smoke, and Stiles tries not to think about how they don’t have any wolfsbane anymore. His head hurts like a bitch, black dots wobble around the edges of his vision, and the blood from his wound drips down his chin.

“Stiles.”

Derek’s fingers gingerly touch the skin around his wound, skit around to brush every so lightly over the bruise blooming across his cheek. Stiles shies away. Now is not the time. They have to get out of here, away from that crazy person—or who or whatever it was—who just knocked out all the murderous hunters. Maybe they’ll even make it.

Stiles has a hard time focusing on walking. The pain seems to get even worse and everything in his vision fluctuates. He knows he slows them down, that even though Derek has been shot with wolfsbane he can still go faster than that—but of course it’s only a matter of time before the effect really kicks in and starts getting weaker by the minute. Stiles doesn’t want to think about it, about the fact that Derek is fatally injured, about how they don’t have wolfsbane to cure it anymore, and how there’s no way he can get his hands on some. Wolfsbane is mostly used by official hunters and law enforcers, who go after rogue werewolves. Stiles knows that apothecaries have a constant supply of wolfsbane in case agents or hunters run out of it on their missions to take a rogue down; however, it’s not sold to civilians.

Stiles has no idea how they make it to the Camaro—which is, surprisingly, not destroyed, has no slashed tires and all of their stuff is still inside. Apparently, the hunters were so sure of themselves that they didn’t think it was necessary to render the car useless. Stiles mentally thanks everything holy as he searches his pockets for the keys.

“You’re not driving,” Derek says firmly. Stiles looks at him and has some sort of pain-and-bloodloss-induced moment, because he starts laughing when he realizes—again—that Derek is still naked. It’s not actually helping, the laughter only makes his head hurt even more, the sound of it reverberating through his skull and causing an ache so piercing that Stiles’ vision goes completely white for a second.

“Your shoulder,” Stiles wheezes through the pain, leaning against the car to prevent himself from collapsing to the ground. He screws his eyes shut and takes a couple of deep breaths until the ache in his head subsides a little. Derek wraps his arms around him, pulling him close, brushing his lips over Stiles’ forehead. Stiles can make out Derek’s thrumming heartbeat and the slight tremors that run through his body; the smell of blood and aconite stings in his nose.

“I’m sorry I let this happen to you,” Derek apologizes, voice hoarse and cracking. He kisses Stiles’ temple softly, avoiding touching the bruises. Stiles cups Derek’s cheeks, brushing his thumbs over the cheekbones, and there’s blood around Derek’s mouth, the hunters’ blood, from the biting; Stiles can’t even be bothered right now, it seems so minor.

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles replies quietly, tiredly, and pleads, “Don’t blame yourself, promise me. Promise me, Derek.”

Derek kisses him, and it tastes like blood. It’s desperate and sloppy; it’s a promise and an apology. An apology for all of this, and for getting shot. Of course Derek knows. There are little to no chances they’re going to get their hands on wolfsbane. Stiles feels sick suddenly, why didn’t he just take a bullet from one of the ammo clips, why didn’t he think of that, why didn’t he, oh god, he’s so stupid.

They shouldn’t have a chick flick moment right now, not with the hunters still in the woods and someone running around and taking them out. It’s convenient, yes, but Stiles doesn’t know who did that and why, so it’s not safe.

“There are wolfsbane bullets—”

“No.”

“You’re going to _die_ ; I’m not going to let you die. The bullets—”

“It’s too dangerous, and you can hardly walk straight,” Derek insists, holding him steady. Stiles wants to fight, he _needs_ to get back and get the ammo, get the _cure_. “We’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way!” Stiles winces as another wave of agony explodes in his head. He can’t fight, not only because Derek wouldn’t let him but also because he’s weakened and hurting and everything sucks.

With the adrenaline receding, Stiles starts to feel sore and exhausted, and all he wants to do is curl up and sleep it out. He can’t, though; he can’t allow himself that luxury, not with what just happened and with Derek’s injury. Still, he barely registers how Derek herds him toward the passenger’s side and helps him scramble inside, and then they’re driving, and Stiles can’t remember noticing Derek starting the car—or dressing in sweats and a loose shirt.

Stiles can’t shake the vigilance but he keeps slipping in and out of consciousness every few minutes. They stop at some ratty motel in the middle of nowhere, and Stiles knows they’re not even close to as far away as possible from the hunters. Derek checks them in before he comes back to get Stiles, carefully ushering him into their room. After that, he disappears again, saying he’ll park the car somewhere else so it won’t be seen. Stiles is out cold before Derek gets back.

Derek wakes him up gently. Stiles feels like someone’s dropped an anvil on his head, and it gets even worse when he notices that Derek is considerably paler than before. Panic rises up in him again. Calmly, Derek shushes him, rubbing soothing circles into the skin of Stiles’ wrists. It helps, more than Stiles would have imagined. Derek hoists Stiles carefully up to his feet and guides him into the bathroom before he sits him down on the toilet lid and puts a first aid kit into his lap, saying, “Hold that for me, please.”

Stiles doesn’t protest when Derek starts wiping the blood from his face with a wet cloth with light sweeps over his skin. He doesn’t say, _I’m not the one who’s dying_. He wants to but he doesn’t. Derek should be more worried about himself, about the poison that spreads through his body and is slowly killing him.

“How are you feeling?” Derek asks. A giant wave of shame and guilt crashes over Stiles. Derek is the one mortally wounded, Stiles is supposed to be looking for a way to get some wolfsbane, to take care of him. Instead, he sits on the lid of a toilet, letting Derek tend to the bruises on his face as if he’s going to break apart.

“Peachy.”

Derek actually rolls his eyes at Stiles. “Don’t play it down.”

Stiles’ hands shake and he clenches them tightly into fists. He grits, “For god’s sake, Derek, you’re _dying_. You’re dying and I can’t do anything but watch.”

“There’s still time,” Derek counters shortly as he throws the rag into the sink. He pulls out some antiseptic and cotton pads.

“And you’re telling _me_ not to play it down?” Stiles feels hysterical. “You look like crap already, how much time can there be left, huh?”

Derek’s mouth is a thin line. He avoids looking Stiles into the eyes and keeps himself busy applying the antiseptic to the bruise on Stiles’ cheek and the wound on his temple. It stings like hell but the pain is kind of grounding; it keeps Stiles from shouting. He should have gone to get at least one of the bullets when he still had the chance.

“You need stitches,” Derek informs him, barely tapping against Stiles’ hairline. He throws the cotton pad into the trash bin. “There’s no anaesthetic in the kit, though.”

Stiles makes a face. More pain. Splendid. He sighs, “Let’s get it over with.”

Derek sweeps a thumb over his bottom lip. He smiles apologetically while he disinfects a needle. Stiles braces himself for the pain but it’s a lost cause. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t keep the pathetic mewls and whimpers in, and the burning sting of the needle brings back the searing ache in his head. By the time Derek is done patching him up, Stiles has tears in his eyes and the pounding in his skull has grown increasingly vicious.

Derek hands him painkillers, and Stiles devours them. Only two pills actually, because Derek wouldn’t let him have more, even though Stiles feels like downing the whole pack. But then Derek slips a hand under Stiles’ shirt. The veins on his arms turn black as some of Stiles’ pain ebbs away immediately.

“What are you doing?” Stiles says with much less fierceness than he’d like. “Stop. Stop it, Derek, I’m serious. You’re too weak to leech my pain now.”

“It’s fine.” Derek smiles, but it seems blurry and brittle; like he’s trying and not succeeding. He slouches a little when he takes his hand away, and Stiles hates it, hates this. 

Instead of feeling eager and ready to go find some wolfsbane, Stiles feels blissfully put out, and can only think, _No no no no no_ , before he crashes, with Derek holding him close to his chest.

The next time he comes to, there is an annoyingly persistent throbbing in his head, his face feels weird—and Derek looks ten times worse than he did before Stiles fell asleep. His skin is ashen, there’s cold sweat on his forehead, and Stiles can make out the little stutter of Derek’s heartbeat where his palm lies flat over Derek’s chest.

Stiles curses himself for falling asleep like that. He sits up, brushing hair out of his face. Despite the throbbing ache in his head he feels better now, rested, and a lot less dizzy; his vision is clear again too.

“Rise and shine,” Derek says jokingly, a weak smile tugging at the corners of his lips and making Stiles’ gut clench. Stiles’ hands flutter helplessly over Derek’s face, his shoulders, his chest.

“How long?” Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him and says, “A day.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Stiles replies. He can see the black streaks peek out from the under the collar of Derek’s shirt, the way the wolfsbane eats away at him from the inside.

Derek heaves out a sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his hair. “Not very much longer,” he finally answers. “Until tonight, I guess.”

Stiles’ heart drops. His mind races, trying to come up with an idea, but the cold feeling that spreads inside of him numbs him considerably, and all Stiles can think about is how he _cannot_ lose Derek. Tears are burning at the corners of his eyes but he furiously blinks them away, he’s not going to cry. There is still time, and he will find wolfsbane.

He’s torn between wanting to leave to find some aconite, and not wanting to leave Derek’s side at all. It’s a horrifying dilemma. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Stiles says eventually and throws on a jacket—because of course today is grey and rainy and generally unpleasant, and Stiles does not want to think about how it perfectly mirrors his mood. “I’ll get you some wolfsbane.”

He kisses Derek, desperate and pleading and apologetic. Derek doesn’t seem to be very keen on letting him go but he doesn’t voice his protest. Instead, he cups Stiles’ cheek with one hand. Stiles leans into the touch, covering Derek’s hand with his own, and turns his face, presses a kiss into Derek’s open palm.

Stiles thinks about going back into the forest but he doesn’t even know where Derek parked the Camaro to begin with, and he has absolutely no idea how far away they actually are from the place where it all happened last night. Next, he notices that there’s not much around, the whole place is so small. Stiles walks from one edge of the village to the other in fifteen minutes. It’s frustrating and depressing, and Stiles feels like screaming and crying because there’s nothing that can help him here.

That is, until he finds the apothecary, and it’s closed for whatever reason. Stiles’ mind snaps to attention as he stares at the sign and then into the darkness of the shop behind the display window. He glances up and down the street before he gets the safety pin out of his pocket, and an additional one out of his wallet.

It shouldn’t be so ridiculously easy to get into the shop. Stiles’ pulse is rabbiting not because he’s breaking into an apothecary but because he is so close to getting wolfsbane for Derek. He puts the safety pins away and closes the shop door quietly behind him, painstakingly making sure that his hand on the handle is completely covered with the sleeve of his jacket. It’s eerily silent. He figures in a little town like this one they obviously don’t really fear break-ins, seeing the lack of alarm systems or whatever. There’s not even a surveillance camera.

When Stiles doesn’t find any wolfsbane he’s close to throwing a hissy fit and just flip everything over. He can’t believe that this is happening, that he doesn’t even have the least bit of luck—getting away from hunters be damned. The anger is so overwhelming he feels tears welling up again. Stiles kicks at an empty trash bin, sending it flying across the storage room of the medicine. This cannot be happening.

Stiles hasn’t had a panic attack in a long, long time, despite all the times they were in dicey situations and all of the conflicts and the adrenaline and fear and running—he never really had _time_ to focus on what was happening and that he would be collapsing in on himself if the circumstances were different. Now, the only thing he can think about is how Derek is slowly but inevitably slipping away through his fingers and Stiles can’t do anything to save him.

Suddenly, there’s no air in the room. He can’t breathe, he can’t, his lungs won’t expand, he’s shaking and his vision blurs, and he sees Derek’s pale face in his mind’s eye. It’s like he’s standing in a room that has no windows or doors, completely trapped with no way out.

Stiles hasn’t had a panic attack in a long, long time, and he’s unprepared. The force with which it hits him knocks all the air and power out of him. He’s heaving, trying to breathe, trying not to lose it when he knows it’s already too late anyway.

Derek is dying and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

It feels like an eternity that Stiles is lying on the floor, curled in on himself. He doesn’t know how much time passes until he calms down, until his head clears a little again, leaving behind a fierce headache. Stiles senses the tremors running through his body at short intervals. He scrubs a hand down his face and winces when he pushes too hard at the bruise on his cheek.

Stiles wishes he could call his dad, talk to him, ask him for advice, hear his voice. A cold shiver skitters down his spine and he shoves that train of thought away. It only makes things ten times worse.

He clambers to his feet and puts everything back into place before heading out again. It’s drizzling outside, it’s chilly, and Stiles wraps his jacket tightly around himself. The numbness that settles deep in his bones is unsettling. His mind doesn’t stop turning every possibility and idea over and over again, trying so hard to find a way to save Derek.

Stiles feels cold and clammy by the time he gets back to the motel, and Derek is literally on the brink of death, chalk-white all over and sweating, hair damp on his forehead and purple-ish circles around his eyes. Derek glances at him; it’s incredible how he manages to speak volumes with that look. Stiles bites at the inside of his cheek to keep it together. The only thing that can save Derek now is a fucking miracle, and Derek knows this himself. They both know better than to believe in it, or hope, and it breaks Stiles’ heart into a million pieces; that look on Derek’s face, that knowing expression, the certainty that he’s going to die.

Carefully, Stiles sits on the bed next to Derek, stroking away the damp hair from his face. Indistinctly, he thinks it would be less painful if he stabbed himself repeatedly with a fork than watching Derek accept his fate.

“Promise me you’ll go back to Beacon Hills, to your dad,” Derek says, looking up at him. “Go back to your life. Tell them I made you come with me, that you had no choice, that I threatened your dad. Tell them what they want to hear, and go back to your life, Stiles. Promise me.”

Stiles bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep the tears from spilling. He feels horrible and helpless. And the worst thing is that there’s no life to get back to. There isn’t. Because he doesn’t have, can’t have, can’t imagine and doesn’t want to have a life without Derek anymore. He’s vaguely aware that this is fucked up and probably disturbingly unhealthy but he’s been with him for so long now that it doesn’t feel right to be without Derek. 

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m not going to promise you anything,” he manages out, surprised by how steady his voice sounds even though Stiles feels like he’s shattering into a million pieces from the inside out. 

Because promising Derek something—anything—means Derek is going to die. And Derek isn’t going to die. Stiles refuses to believe it. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, pleading, voice shallow and broken. 

Stiles shakes his head. “No. You don’t get to do this to me,” he says stubbornly, and now he is shattering. His voice breaks. “You don’t get to leave me alone. Not after everything. I’m not letting you die.”

Carefully, Derek twines their fingers together; his palm damp with sweat, and cold. He looks up at him, his face pale, haggard. It brings back memories from Stiles’ past, from the other time he watched somebody he loved die. 

Derek swallows heavily, throat working with the effort. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, squeezes Stiles’ hand. “It’s okay.”

Stiles can hardly look at him, but this—it makes him feel helplessly angry. He takes a deep breath. “It’s not okay,” Stiles snaps. The desperation and devastation coursing through him is nauseating. “Maybe it’s okay for you. But what about me?” He gets to be selfish about this. “What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do without you?”

He hates how his voice cracks, how he seems to splinter open to his very core: raw and bleeding and broken. Derek squeezes a little tighter. 

“You can go on without me. Just—it’ll take some time but—”

“What if I don’t want to go on without you?”

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. Stiles used to make fun about all these ridiculously in love people in movies who talked shit like that. Who knew each other for what, a couple of months? He laughed it off, shook his head. Life, after all, doesn’t revolve around just one person. Why get so hung up on it?

It’s almost ironic that he finds himself in this now. 

Derek is quiet for a long time, and Stiles tries to control the tremors running through his body. He feels exhausted, wrung out and worn thin but he can’t allow himself to give up hope. So, he clutches their entwined hands to his chest and holds on running his lips over Derek’s knuckles. 

“I love you,” is what Derek offers in the end. Stiles stills, looks up to stare at him. He untangles his hand and gets up. Maybe there’s a Sheriff’s department somewhere. He has to try.

“Shut up,” Stiles says as he stands up and throws on his jacket. “Save it for when I find a way to save your ass.”

Derek smiles weakly. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Stiles opens the door, only barely avoids running into the woman that stands in front of it. Her hand is raised as if to knock but she takes a step back, caught off guard. Stiles quickly takes her in: she’s dressed in simple, fitted clothes in earthy shades; her dark hair falls loosely over her shoulders, and she seems tense. A muscle in her jaw works as she takes her hand down. He wonders why she’s here, if she’s with the motel or—

“Stiles.” She sounds sure, there’s no question in her tone. He almost slams the door in her face. It can’t be good. Somebody seeking him out like this. Stiles can feel his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. 

“Who are you?” He narrows his eyes at her, hating how his voice shakes. 

She raises both her hands, palms open. “My name is Allison Argent.”

Stiles can feel all the blood drain from his face, a tight icy feeling dropping like a stone in his gut. Suddenly Derek’s in front of him, snarling. Allison doesn’t flinch but she focuses on Derek, jaw firmly set. She keeps her hands up, a placating gesture. He pushes in front of Derek, reaches behind himself and splays his hands out over his sides. He feels Derek’s growl reverberating. Derek is pressing against him but Stiles digs his heels in.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Allison explains. Derek snorts. “I don’t have any weapons on me. I came alone. Nobody but me knows your location.”

“Why should we believe you?” Stiles asks. He glances around the parking lot of the motel quickly, tries to make out any unusual shapes, other hunters. 

Allison remains calm, patient. “You can check for the weapons yourself. And I’m sure if Derek concentrates, he’ll be able to confirm that I’m not lying.” She makes eye contact with Derek, and Stiles can feel him tense even more, leaning forward like he wants to reach her still. 

Stiles takes a step forward, puts a hand on Derek’s chest and quickly turns to look at him; pushes a little to signal that he’s got this. Derek doesn’t look at him, doesn’t take his eyes off Allison for one second but he backs down minutely. Stiles turns back to her, starts patting her down. Allison doesn’t move, doesn’t squirm. She lets him do it without protest. Stiles fishes her phone out of the back pocket of her pants, and finds a little see-through plastic zip bag with—wolfsbane in it. His pulse skyrockets for a completely different reason this time. 

His eyes snap back up to Allison and she lowers her hands. “I’m alone,” she says, slowly, and directs it at Derek. “I’m the only one who knows you’re here. I’m not here to hurt you. I came to help you.”

Derek bares his teeth, unconvinced. He doesn’t press, though, and Stiles feels the fight drain out of him. He’s still weak. He shouldn’t be doing this. 

Stiles stares at her. He can’t tell what Derek heard but he figures her heartbeat was even, that she isn’t lying. But he also knows that werewolves aren’t foolproof lie detectors and Derek isn’t on top of his game. She’s an Argent after all, she probably knows how to lie to werewolves without getting caught. Why would she help them in the first place? It doesn’t make any sense.

“You don’t have to trust me,” Allison says. “I’m asking you to believe me.”

Stiles scoffs. Like it’s that easy. “Why are you here?” he demands.

Allison huffs out a breath. She shifts, clenches her hands into fists as she casts a look at Derek again. Impatience, Stiles figures. 

“Scott sent me. Your pack sent me,” she answers eventually, addresses Derek, and then, “Your dad sent me.” She looks at Stiles. “I’ve been trying to find you for a while now. You can call Scott. His number is in the phone.”

“How do we know this isn’t a set-up?” Derek asks, voice hoarse. 

Allison exhales deeply. “Trust your instincts.”

“My instincts tell me to—”

“You understand you probably don’t want to rely on our instincts when it comes to you. Or your family,” Stiles cuts in. “For your own sake.”

Allison smiles wryly. “Look,” she starts and looks between them, mulls over her words. “There’s probably nothing I can say or do to convince you of my intentions. I get that. My family hasn’t really left any room for sympathy, and I know you don’t have the luxury just to trust people. I’ll go. I promise nobody will come after you for now. Just—call Scott.”

She steps back, raises both her hands in an open gesture. 

“What about your phone?” Stiles asks, stunned. 

Allison sends him a tight smile. “Keep it for now,” she offers before turning. After a few steps, she turns back around. “Use the wolfsbane. Save yourself, Derek.”

With that, she quickly walks away. They watch until she’s out of sight. Derek leans against him as soon as she’s gone completely, and Stiles turns around to face him. He looks even worse than before but now—now Stiles has finally room to breathe. He has some wolfsbane, he can save Derek. It’s going to be fine. 

Derek stumbles back to bed while Stiles shuts the door, locks it for good measure. An Argent knowing where they are is unsettling, no matter what Allison said. A small voice in his head points out that there’s no sense in her giving them wolfsbane if she wanted Derek dead. Hunters are fucked up folks and Stiles doesn’t trust that they don’t have some twisted ideas. 

Stiles slides Allison’s phone into the pocket of his pants before he focuses on the little bag of wolfsbane in his hand. Relief crashes through him so hard his knees feel weak. It’s gonna be okay, Derek’s gonna live. If they get over this, they will survive any other thing too. 

When Stiles walks up to the bed, Derek’s sitting, hunched in on himself staring at his hand: black-streaked veins standing out in stark contrast to his ashen skin. It’s a disconcerting look, sickening even, and there are tiny, tiny tremors running through Derek’s body. He’s on the brink, balancing the edge and Stiles can’t lose any more time. 

Stiles shakes the wolfsbane onto the table, fumbles for a lighter out of one of their bags, and lights it on fire. It sparks up blue, flashes hot and bright burning to ashes. The whole process happens in a matter of seconds, though they feel like long, long minutes to Stiles. He quickly collects what’s left of the wolfsbane, gathers it in his palm and turns to Derek.

“Derek, the wolfsbane—”

Derek looks up, lips pulled back over his teeth. “No,” he says, a dull, weak snarl behind his words. 

Stiles almost drops the ashes. “What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not taking the wolfsbane.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath inwardly counting to ten. This isn’t happening, it’s not. When he opens his eyes again, Derek’s looking at him, fury still impressive even as he’s dying. 

“I’m not taking anything offered by an Argent,” Derek says. He makes it sound like it’s obvious, like he can’t quite believe Stiles actually needs an answer, an elaboration. 

The world slows down around Stiles, everything feels surreal and painful. He can’t breathe properly, like his lungs wouldn’t expand enough, and there’s fear, panic and anger buzzing right under his skin, twisting, pushing. Stiles clenches his free hand into a fist, forces his lungs to open up and let him breathe. The last thing he needs right now is another panic attack. It’s a kneejerk reaction then, desperation spilling all over his skin, scalding and icy at the same time. 

Stiles straddles Derek’s thighs and pushes him down on his back using his free hand. Going by the look on Derek’s face, he’s surprised, doesn’t struggle—until Stiles presses the forearm of his free hand across Derek’s shoulder and collarbone pinning him down. It only works because Derek is weak; there isn’t much fight left in him or the strength to actually use it against Stiles. However, Stiles can feel him tense, strain to get away the moment he realizes what Stiles is about to do. 

It’s not easy holding Derek down, even now, and Stiles uses his body weight. Derek’s heartbeat is a jackhammer against his ribs, hard and fast.

“Stiles,” Derek struggles to get out from underneath him. His voice is harsh, angry. “Don’t.”

Stiles feels bile at the back of his throat. Derek is weak, so weak, his attempts to throw Stiles off are futile, and it’s like a blow to the gut. Seeing him like this, feeling him like this—when Derek hates to show vulnerability of any kind, hates being helpless. 

So, mind void, never thinking about how he uses Derek’s weakness against him, Stiles pushes the wolfsbane into the bullet wound on Derek’s shoulder, pushes it as deep as he dares to go with his fingers. 

Derek goes stiff under him, body seizing up, and then he’s howling in pain, writhing and shaking. Stiles wraps his arms around him and holds on, tries to give at least a little comfort. The smell of burnt aconite and torn flesh makes his stomach churn. A string of pained, choked off noises keeps coming out of Derek’s throat, and they stab straight into Stiles. He presses a hand over the injury, feels how Derek’s skin kneads itself back together until there’s nothing but smoothness underneath his palm. The black streaks are gone from Derek’s veins.

Derek goes lax in his arms, his breath comes out hard and harsh, and Stiles doesn’t dare to let go of him, or to look him in the eyes. 

Stiles buries his nose in Derek’s neck and breathes him in. His whole body is trembling but whether of happiness and relief, or trepidation, he can’t tell. There are very few boundaries between them at this point, and trust is an essential part of what makes them work in their relationship, in their situation. 

He’s barely able to get enough air into his lungs when all his thoughts come crashing down. Stiles overstepped a line, a boundary they’ve never talked about before for the simple reason that they never even thought of it. There’s always something that you didn’t see coming. He did what he had to do to save Derek. Granted, it wasn’t an entirely selfless purpose. But isn’t he allowed to be selfish at least every once in a while? Isn’t he allowed to be selfish when it comes to the one person that he loves unconditionally? How was he supposed to let Derek die when he had the cure at his disposal? 

He did the right thing. He did the right thing and he can’t find it in him to regret it. It doesn’t even matter that Derek is tense and unresponding against him right now; deep, controlled breaths huffing past Stiles’ ear. Stiles holds on, fingers scrabbling against Derek’s skin. It’s not much—nothing at all to show Derek that he cares, that he’s happy, relieved. Derek is quiet, stoic in a way that scares Stiles because he doesn’t react at all. He’s also not pushing Stiles off, away, and Stiles dares to be hopeful about it.

He is until Derek finally moves, reaches over his shoulders to grab Stiles’ hands, pries them away and pushes Stiles off. Derek sits up easily enough, his large, warm hands covering Stiles’. It’s hard to look at him, unbearable even to lift his gaze and glance at Derek’s face. When Stiles meets his eyes, he almost flinches because there is a blankness to Derek’s gaze that unfurls a frighteningly icy feeling deep within Stiles’ body, in his lungs; makes it feel like Stiles is inhaling razors instead of air. 

Derek moves to get up and Stiles wordlessly gets off him, lets him; watches his effortless, easy movements. His skin doesn’t look sickly white anymore, he’s not hunched over and it makes Stiles’ heart both swell and clench painfully. Stiles sits back down on the bed, helplessly flexing his hands against his knees, unsure of what to do now. Derek is too quiet. Stiles hates it, hates how quiet he is, hates it because beneath the surface Derek’s fury is violently undulating, sharp and bright. Derek rarely gets like this, and it’s a testament to how deep his anger runs when he has to compose himself so much that nothing of it shows on his face. 

Stiles presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and exhales, shuddery. Derek’s anchor isn’t anger anymore, it hasn’t been for a while. He can’t use this, now, to keep himself together. But it’s like a slap, like a ruthless, painful strike to the face when he considers what Derek needs to anchor himself. It’s cruel, cruel irony. One that makes Stiles want to retch and clutch at his throat because it feels too tight. 

Derek needs Stiles to keep himself grounded. 

The silence stretches while Derek puts on a shirt and Stiles can’t take looking at him. It’s easy to see the strain and tension in the way Derek jerks the hem of the shirt down or runs his hands through his hair. Stiles is unable to tell how close Derek is to losing control, to fall apart and just give it up; stop fighting against the shift. This isn’t a question of fear of getting hurt because no matter what Derek would never harm him, in no possible scenario ever. Stiles worries for Derek’s sake, he hoped his actions wouldn’t push Derek that far. 

Derek spreads his hands out on the surface of the table, bears his weight down on them and exhales, long and deep, controlled. The muscles on his back, on his neck are rigid, coiled tight. He sound calm, eerie even when he says, “You had no right to do that.”

Stiles releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “You would have died if I hadn’t done it.”

“I’d rather die than being forced to take something that comes from an Argent.” Derek is still calm but the venom in his voice is enough to make Stiles flinch like he’s been slapped. 

Stiles rubs a hand over his face feeling his own anger uncurling slowly somewhere deep in his stomach. It is just out of his reach to understand Derek’s reasoning. Like it’s that easy, like he thinks it’s a piece of cake for Stiles to just let him die. It’s ridiculous. 

“We’ve been running from everyone, Derek, from the law, from hunters. We’ve been running to keep you from getting killed, we went through so much shit and then you just what—succumb to wolfsbane poisoning that’s been inflicted to you by hunters? And you expect me to watch you die while I literally hold the cure in my hands?”

“I trusted you,” Derek grits out, tone getting harsh now, losing its voidness. “I thought you wouldn’t trust them so easily.”

“I don’t—I don’t trust her,” Stiles says, adamant. “This isn’t about trusting her.”

“Yes, it is,” Derek snaps turning around to face him, fury like an open map on his face: unfurling in his eyebrows, spilling over his mouth. “You had no right to do this to me. To use—” He catches himself, rubs a hand over his lips. “How did you know there wasn’t mountain ash in it? You couldn’t tell, Stiles, cause you’ve only ever seen the ashes, never the actual plant.”

Every counter word dies right on Stiles’ tongue. He hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t considered it at all. The wave of guilt is gone as soon as it came, though. Derek would have died either way, he knows it himself. Stiles can’t tell why he brought it up in the first place, given that it doesn’t actually support Derek’s point. 

“There wasn’t mountain ash in it,” Stiles replies eventually. “You would have died with or without it.”

“And yet you trusted—”

“I didn’t!” Stiles yells now, angry, frustrated. He hates it when Derek throws accusations at him. “Stop—just stop. You wanna tell me you wouldn’t have done the same if the roles were reversed?”

Derek clenches his jaw.

“Would you let me die, just like that, even if you knew you have something that would save me?”

He doesn’t get an answer but it’s easy to guess that Derek wouldn’t have acted differently. It’s not about trusting the wrong person, however, it’s about using Derek’s weakness against him; it’s about violating his trust. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. “You know, I can take a lot, Derek. I can leave everything for you, my dad, my friends, my home. I can take driving and sleeping in your stupid flashy car, I can take the crappy motels and your infuriating stubbornness. But I c—I can’t watch you die. You can’t expect me to watch you die. You—I—don’t ever ask me to do that.”

The silence that follows rips a wide, gaping abyss between them, and Stiles has never felt farther apart from Derek despite their physical proximity. Stiles looks down at his hands, anger already subsided when exhaustion takes its place. 

“Nobody asked you to come with me,” Derek says eventually. His voice sounds flat. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest when Stiles looks up, surprised.

“What?”

Derek looks at him with an empty expression in his eyes. He sighs, then, like everything is clearly obvious and Stiles is acting like a clueless child. “Nobody ever asked you to come with me. Nobody asked you to leave everything behind, or take the driving and the stupid flashy car,” he parrots, tone hard. “Nobody asked you to endure me.”

Each word lands like a strike. 

“Derek—” Stiles stumbles over the name, the syllables dying on his tongue because his voice gives out.

“Every day I wake up and think what a big mistake it was taking you with me— _allowing_ you to come with me,” Derek says so calmly and quietly that it sends chills down Stiles’ spine. He clenches his jaw, looks away briefly. Stiles manages not to bodily flinch at the words. It doesn’t stop the scarring numbness from unfurling, snaking its way through every organ, every cell; it wraps itself around Stiles like a cocoon, drains the fight off him. 

Stiles knows that Derek’s words are meant to hurt, to cause damage and drive away. It’s something Derek only thinks about in the dead of night without ever delving into it, only ever wondering about it in passing. Stiles would know. He’s had this kind of thoughts too, and he’s familiar with how Derek’s mind works. Saying it out loud, though, that’s a Derek thing; he’s done it before—tried it at least, and Stiles fell for it the first time—but that doesn’t change the fact that Stiles is too exhausted, too worn out to really care.

“Well, newsflash Mr. Werewolf,” Stiles answers, tired, beaten. “I’m the only person you have left.” He rubs a hand over his face, wincing when pain flares up. “Look around, Derek, and tell me who you see. Is there a mile-long line of people waiting to help you? Why do you think none of your Betas is here with you? I can’t exactly recall them falling all over each other to offer to come with you, stay at your side and get you out.” Stiles can feel anger—or is it devastation?—licking like flames at his throat. “You’re alone, jackass. There is no one else. You have nobody left but me, and now it’s too late for you to think about how much of a mistake it is to have me with you. They’re all gone, Derek. There is nobody else.”

Derek’s mouth hardens into a thin line. “How gracious of you to point that out,” he replies coolly. Wordlessly, Derek grabs his jacket and leaves. The door shuts with a soft click, loud in the echoing silence of the room. Stiles screws his eyes shut, exhales a shuddery breath. In all of the nine months he has never felt as utterly and frighteningly unmoored as he does now. 

He knows it would be easier if Derek was lying. 

Stiles pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around them and buries his face in the crook of his arm. He swallows down dry sobs.

Inhale, count to three, exhale.

He shakes with the effort to hold himself together, fights not to think about how final Derek walking out on him felt. The ache in his body seems real, running deep, but it’s an illusion, a phantom created in his head. His heart doesn’t beat right: the palpitation stutters and stumbles irregularly, catches against his ribcage. Stiles’ body feels hollowed out to the core, to him, like his shit has been laid bare in front of him. It’s a late realization that he shouldn’t have risen to the bait, to Derek’s words. Stiles should have known better.

Allison’s phone digs into his skin when he shifts his weight. Stiles can’t tell how much time has passed since Derek left. The light filtering through the blinds is dim, though, probably late afternoon or early evening. 

Stiles fishes the phone out of his pocket. He stares at it for a moment, unsure of what to do. Allison urged him to call Scott but Stiles is hesitant to follow her request. Who knows who will actually be on the other end of the line. It’s probably too late to question her. What else does he has to lose now?

He pulls up the contacts looking for Scott. The number programmed into the phone is, in fact, Scott’s. Stiles has it still memorized. His fingers hover over the call button. In the end, he doesn’t hesitate for long because the prospect of talking to his best friend—the possibility—is too tempting.

Stiles clutches the phone to his ear with shaky fingers, the dial tone rings in his ears. 

Scott’s voice is like a balm sliding over his soul, easing the pain that’s been thrumming through his body. 

“Allison.”

“Um,” Stiles says, breath hitching in his throat. “Not really.”

“Stiles!” Scott sounds excited, relieved. “Oh thank god she found you. How are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m—” Stiles struggles to come up with an answer, unable to decide what to tell Scott. “I—”

“What’s wrong?” 

Stiles almost bursts out crying. Scott has always been perceptive of Stiles’ moods and feelings, and it’s not different now, even while they’re miles and miles apart. 

“It’s nothing,” Stiles answers. 

Scott huffs at the other end of the line. Even without his werewolf senses, he could always call bullshit with Stiles. That’s probably an ability that comes with best friends. “Dude.”

Stiles rubs at his eye. “Derek and I had a fight,” he says slowly. Scott is quiet, clearly expecting Stiles to elaborate. He swallows, stalling. This isn’t how he imagined a potential call to Scott going. Whining to him about their problems when there are so many other, good things they could be talking about. But Scott is patient and expectant, and Stiles—he feels like he’s gonna shatter any minute. “I—Scott, I don’t know if—he left and I don’t know if he’s gonna come back. It—it’s never been like this before. I think he almost lost it, Scotty, I think he almost lost control.”

Scott doesn’t need an elaboration on what it means. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks gingerly. God, Stiles misses him so much it actually hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut to keep the tears away exhaling shuddery.

Stiles takes a moment to sort his thoughts, bring them into focus. It’s far from easy given that everything seems blurry right now, far away and unimportant. He summarizes the events that happened in the past couple of hours, explains how their encounter with Allison went down and finally, what happened after that. 

Scott takes a deep breath when Stiles is finished. He stays quiet for a while, parsing out what Stiles told him, probably. “You did what you had to do,” he eventually says thoughtfully. “The whole situation was shitty, I get that, but he would have died without the wolfsbane. You did the right thing, Stiles.”

“Derek obviously disagrees.” 

“Derek is too stubborn and too hung up on his principles,” Scott scoffs, voice tinged slightly with exasperation. “But he knows damn well that you saved his life. He’ll come around.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Stiles doesn’t want to sound desperate about it but he is. 

“Stiles.” Scott’s voice is soft, comforting. Stiles curls and uncurls a hand on his knee. “As much as it sucked, for both of you, the end does justify the means sometimes. Derek isn’t stupid, and he’s sure as hell not going to leave you over this.”

Stiles can’t keep the wet, choked off sound in that escapes his throat. Scott’s words don’t entirely convince him but it’s still what Stiles needed to hear. Slowly, he sinks down until his back hits the mattress. 

Staring up at the dirty ceiling, Stiles quietly says, “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

Stiles vehemently disagrees. He has Scott so much to thank for, most of all for knowing exactly what to say to ease at least some of Stiles’ pain, even when they are thousands of miles apart and haven’t seen each other in nine months. It’s a little easier to breathe now. 

“Yeah, there is. So much I don’t know where to start,” Stiles admits. He closes his eyes in an attempt to focus on his thoughts, to calm himself further down. “How come you guys sent someone after us whose guts Derek would hate?”

Scott chuckles lightly. “It was a long shot, yeah,” he agrees on a sigh, then. “But Allison’s the only one who had the resources to try and find you, and who wouldn’t look suspicious doing it.”

“I don’t understand how you all accepted an Argent in the first place,” Stiles explains trying hard to keep the accusing tone in his voice down. The last thing he wants to do now is to argue with Scott, no matter what the issue. Plus, he has no doubts that there’s a reasonable explanation for this. Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Scott—Derek’s pack—wouldn’t just go around betraying him like that.

“It’s—I know,” Scott says slowly. “Allison, Chris, and Gerard came into town a little while after you left.”

Stiles doesn’t focus on how Scott seems overly familiar using their first names.

Scott hesitates for a moment before continuing. “Nobody took them in with open arms. Gerard practically burned a war path through town, he got the officials on his side too. They questioned every one of us. It was really bad at times, dude, like they tried their hardest to rile us up. I think they wanted us to flip.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his mouth. A wave of guilt crashes over him. He’s always known that the people he left behind would get interviewed, especially the werewolves, to find out what they knew; and Stiles had no illusions about it not getting ugly but this—

“They got nothing on us, though, and we didn’t tell them anything about you and Derek. Your dad tried to lay out a trace that would connect the Hale fire to Kate but they—they didn’t pick up on it. Allison later said it was mostly Gerard’s doing, his influence.”

“He knew,” Stiles says, grinds his teeth because of fucking course this monstrous douchebag knew. It was probably him who sicced Kate on Derek and his family. 

“Yeah.” Scott sounds endlessly sad. “Anyway, it was Allison who came to us. She investigated herself after she caught on the hints your dad tried to drop, and you know, after that she figured it out pretty quickly.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question, though.” 

“She’s on our side, Stiles,” Scott elaborates. “After she found out what Kate did, she came to us again and asked what happened. We told her.”

“She could have been lying just to get you to talk.” Stiles regrets his words almost as soon as they’re out. He sounds a lot like Derek now, pissed and perpetually distrustful. 

“Do you really think we haven’t considered it?” Scott is patient with him, so patient, like he really gets him but also wants him to understand. “She is an Argent after all. You have to understand that I’m only summarizing what happened. It’s been a work in progress, and Allison earned our trust.”

Scott pauses, and Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t doubt his best friend, or any of the others. It’s difficult to accept certain facts after nine months of ever present vigilance and always having to look back over his shoulder. 

“A family name doesn’t determine what kind of person you are,” Scott says quietly, like a reminder. “You never thought I was a monster, not once, not even when I thought I was; when all I knew was that I’d been turned into a raging, vicious—thing. You never thought that I would turn into who—what—bit me. Remember that. It’s the same thing. Don’t let the name keep you from seeing who Allison really is.”

Stiles doesn’t have a response to that. Instead, he recalls how Allison held herself when she talked to him and Derek. She was earnest, right from the start. Maybe that should have been a telling sign right then. Neither Stiles nor Derek knew who she was, she could have easily deceived them. Stiles stares at the ceiling again. He narrows his eyes when a thought occurs to him.

“What’s with you being so protective of her?” he asks.

There’s a pause that feels tense, in a way. Eventually, Scott confesses, “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Since when?”

Scott huffs out a breath. “Since February.” There’s reluctance in his tone, he sounds hesitant.

“You’ve been with her for three months?” Stiles sits up again and almost drops the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me when we talked on my birthday?”

“I—you know, I figured it was the wrong time to lay on you that I’m dating an Argent,” Scott says, still a little hesitant.

Stiles sighs shallowly. He hates how Scott feels that he can’t tell Stiles his news when he gets the chance; how this whole situation restricts them not only in a way that they can’t see each other or talk regularly. Scott is his best friend, his brother really, he should never feel like there was a bad time for sharing something. 

“Are you happy?” Stiles asks as he rubs at his eyes. “Does she make you happy?”

“Yeah,” Scott answers instantly. There’s no question in that, then. Stiles can feel the smile spreading over his face, and it almost feels foreign, lost on him when he thinks how he felt only a few minutes ago. But Scott is happy, and that’s everything that matters to Stiles. 

“She’s—Stiles, she’s amazing,” Scott says, voice glazed over with a tone that is sugary sweet, dreamy. “And she’s nothing—I mean I don’t—Allison is nothing like Kate.”

Stiles refrains from pointing out that Scott knew Kate for all of a couple of days, tops. Admittedly though, it’s not hard to be a better person than Kate. When Stiles first met her, all his instincts were on edge. Maybe he’d been biased, then, because he’d already known what she had done—Derek told him. But there was this—air around her. She’d looked pretty, her smile wide and charming, but the way it never really reached her eyes...it unsettled something deep inside him that he could never put a finger on. It was easy to fall for her charm if you didn’t know who she was underneath that mask. She hid it well, her ruthless, chilling cruelty; her complete lack of mercy or remorse. The certainty that she would have fooled Stiles if he hadn’t known about her is something that haunted him in his sleep; despite the feeling he had about her. 

Stiles bites his tongue, swallows down the argument his brain wants to fire at Scott, still. If Kate could have easily fooled everyone, so could Allison. It’s an internal struggle, one he can’t shake, even though he trusts Scott. At some point, Stiles gave up trying to distinguish his own thoughts, assumptions and prejudices from Derek’s. 

“She’s a lot like you, actually,” Scott continues, and Stiles tells himself he’s not offended. “She doesn’t see us as monsters.”

“There are a lot of people who don’t—”

“Stiles.”

“Sorry.”

Scott heaves out a sigh. “I know you’re loyal to Derek, I get that, and I understand that this isn’t easy.”

“I’m sorry, Scott,” Stiles repeats, feeling small and scolded. 

“You know, when Gerard sicced all of his hunter buddies on you, none of them even stopped to ask what exactly happened, or why,” Scott explains, and Stiles closes his eyes; images of hunter parties flashing in front of him. “The officials—they’re not hateful but they always look at us like they think that at some point in time, we’re inevitably going to snap. You were never like that. You didn’t look at me differently when I got turned. Even after I jumped on you, almost ki—you didn’t treat me differently.”

His throat feels tight again, heart beating painfully against his ribs.

“Allison doesn’t, either.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, exhales, and then, “I believe you.”

“Believe her.”

Stiles hesitates for a second. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Scott says sounding genuinely grateful and it makes Stiles breathe a little easier. His tone changes when he suggests, “There’s—you should meet her.”

There is no implication of “meet my girlfriend” behind it but instead, something more urgent. Stiles narrows his eyes at the ceiling. “Why?”

“We came up with something,” Scott replies slowly. “Well, Allison really, but we helped.”

“What are you talking about?” Thoughts fly through his head while his brain tries to come up with ideas. 

“It’s—look, just meet with Allison. She’ll tell you, she has everything with her. It was her idea in the first place, and it’s better if she tells you in person than me telling you over the phone.”

“I—” Stiles is really not sure what to make of it, where to place this on a scale from _might be good_ to _will get us killed_.

“Please,” Scott says, pleads, adding, “It’s for you. For you and Derek. Please.”

There’s a beat of silence that Stiles uses to quickly gather his thoughts. He can’t think of anything so important Scott refuses to tell him on the phone; something that’s for both him and Derek. Something that Allison Argent has come up with. But Scott’s adamant insistence echoes in his head.

“Fine,” Stiles finally agrees, half wondering if he’ll regret it. “How do I meet her, though? I have her phone and I don’t know where she is.”

“You just tell me when and where you want to meet her, and I’ll let her know. She’ll be there.”

He takes a moment, recalls a diner he’s seen earlier today when he walked through town. “At twelve,” he says to Scott. “Tomorrow.”

There’s rustling at the other end of the line, like Scott scrambles for a pen and paper, and some murmuring. “Got it,” Scott tells him. “Okay, buddy, look, I gotta go. Tell your dad that you’re—well, that you’re—not dead. Call me tomorrow, yes, and I’ll get your dad on the line, and the others too. Just—I—you call me tonight. If you need anything. Or just—”

“I will,” Stiles says, means everything, and smiles, because suddenly everything seems easier, lighter. Scott is like a beacon in the night, illuminates all the dark places in and around Stiles and makes the world look brighter again. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Scott answers, fond, soft. 

Stiles can’t bring himself to actually say goodbye, or _talk to you soon_ , so he just wishes Scott a good night and waits until his best friend hangs up; unable to end the call himself. 

After that, he sits up and sits in silence for a while, hand clasped firmly around the phone. Dusk is settling in slowly, casting long, dark shadows across the room; and in the quiet of the room and his own head, the empty space Derek left behind is a gaping hole. Scott’s words, _He’ll come around_ , are a fading echo in Stiles’ ears, but there’s an emptiness to the memory now, and Stiles buries his face in his hands.

The edges of the world seem blurry when Stiles focuses back in, far away and tiny. It is quiet, way too quiet. Stiles starts humming some melody without even thinking about it, just to make some noise. His skin crawls but he doesn’t know why. 

The shower is tiny and there’s black mold between the grooves of the tiles; the water takes forever to even get lukewarm and by the time it’s hot enough to scald, his skin is covered in goosebumps and his feet are cold. He hisses when he steps under the spray, pain flaring through his veins like hundreds of needle points breaching his skin. Stiles scrubs himself down, gets rid of the sweat and the pain and the fear, tries to at least. He is raw by the time he’s done.

Stiles swipes a hand through the condensed steam on the mirror. For a second, he sees a different person staring back at him. Someone ashen and broken and sick; someone who looks exhausted and forlorn, like someone who came back from war. The ugly bruise under his right eye, swollen and blue, throbs dully when Stiles carefully dabs around the broken skin. Carefully, he peels away the band-aid Derek put on the stitched up cut on his forehead, inspects it. Paying attention to wounds always seems to bring back the pain, and soon enough, Stiles’ head hurts, _hurts_ so much he can’t think anymore. 

Lying in the big bed, Stiles feels small and vulnerable. It’s the first night in nine months that he sleeps alone; the first time that Derek does not occupy the space next to him, doesn’t protectively curl around him. The space where Derek should be is hollow, it’s wrong, so wrong, and Stiles misses him. Loneliness and fear creep around him in the dead of night like hungry predators when Stiles lies wide awake. He didn’t realize that Derek’s presence gives him a sense of safety that isn’t there now. 

The bed, no matter where, has always been a safe place for Stiles. Ever since he was a little kid he felt invulnerable when he scrambled onto it: nothing could hurt him there, no monsters lurking in the dark. It’s a childish thing but it has stayed with him until now. 

Now, lying in bed doesn’t elicit a feeling of safety at all. Instead, it’s like he’s in the spotlight for every lurking shadow to see, for every beast to crawl up to him and claw him apart. 

Stiles tosses and turns but no position seems right, the bed too wide, and his nerves don’t settle; don’t let him get some peace. A couple of times Stiles slips under the surface of consciousness but surges awake when he feels like falling in his sleep. The night is far from restful, and when dawn rolls around, he’s weary and aching. His injuries didn’t stop hurting all night, don’t stop now, and Stiles cannot lie still. 

The light from the dawn filtering through the window makes it easier for Stiles to calm a little until he drifts away for a couple of short hours. He doesn’t sleep soundly, so when he gets up he feels tense and stiff. His first instinct is to look around and check for Derek but the room doesn’t look like somebody has been in here while Stiles was asleep. It makes his heart clench and his lungs squeeze shut. 

An hour before noon, he considers blowing off the meeting with Allison. 

Fifteen minutes to twelve, he decides to go. 

Stiles throws on a grey, worn out zip up hoodie and pulls the hood into his face before he walks out. He finds the diner easily enough and drops into a booth in the far corner of the room, facing the entrance and the dining area. A habit he picked up from Derek. 

Allison locks eyes with him as soon as she enters the diner, right on time, and walks swiftly over. She slides into the booth with an easy grace, places her hands placatingly on the surface of the table. Stiles takes a moment to look at her, tries to see her objectively and not tainted with prejudice. She doesn’t break eye contact, lets him look quietly. The family resemblance is obvious once he takes his time to catalogue her features. Still, the sharp air that surrounded Kate is completely missing. 

“Thank you for coming,” Stiles finds himself saying, doesn’t know why, and it probably doesn’t sound sincere at all. 

Allison smiles easily, small. “I’m glad you agreed to meet me,” she answers.

 _It’s mostly Scott’s doing_ , he doesn’t say but he figures Allison knows anyway. 

“How is Derek doing?” Allison asks, brows furrowed and forehead in worried creases. She sounds earnest about it, although Scott probably told her about that too. Stiles rubs a hand over his mouth when he realizes he keeps trying to find reasons to dislike her. He promised Scott. He’s going to try.

“Last time I saw him he was fine—physically,” Stiles replies truthfully sagging against the backrest. “He left after I forced the wolfsbane into his system, and he hasn’t been back since.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

Stiles is a little surprised that she doesn’t offer comforting platitudes. “I don’t know.”

“I imagine it must be hard to let somebody go after so long together, after going through what you went through,” she admits quietly, thoughtfully. She slots her fingers together, looks up when a waitress walks up to them and asks for their orders. 

Stiles doesn’t feel like eating but orders pancakes anyway. Allison asks for fries and coffee. 

“He isn’t letting go,” Stiles says after the waitress leaves, and looks up at Allison. “He’s leaving me.”

Allison’s gaze is searching. “That’s what it is for you. From Derek’s perspective—he probably thinks he’s letting you go. But I’m not the best person to judge this. I don’t know him as well as you do.”

The thing is, she’s right. Her statement hits so close to home that Stiles feels like he’s turned from the inside out, leaving raw and open and vulnerable. It’s exactly what Derek’s probably thinking. 

“I don’t think I want to talk about this.”

“Right. Sorry.” Allison smiles apologetically at him. It’s an open gesture, a smile sincere and sad. 

They fall silent, and the waitress comes back with their food. The smell makes Stiles’ stomach churn. 

“So,” Stiles starts, just for the sake of talking; because the silence between them stretches on and it’s uncomfortable. “How did you find us?”

“The hunters,” she answers. “They told me they found you.”

Stiles almost drops the fork he picked up as he stares at her in surprise. “You are the Argent I heard them talking about.”

He didn’t even consider anyone else than Gerard when talking about Argent, and suddenly it all comes together. 

“You were the one who took the hunters out.”

“I did,” Allison says. A small smirk is tugging at the corners of her mouth making her look devious. 

“You didn’t kill them, though.” It’s not an accusation. Stiles doesn’t expect—or want—anyone to kill for them. 

Allison shrugs non-committally. “No. I think it would have made things worse for you if I did. Those guys were just the advance guard, more were to come. If they had found them dead, they’d only twist and turn it to make it look like Derek had killed them. It’s how they work. Rile each other up. But Derek bit some of them, so…”

She looks concerned. Stiles gets the implication. Hunter code demands suicide if they get bitten by a werewolf and that would certainly be used as another incentive to kill Derek. 

“They won’t turn,” Stiles says, quietly, while he picks apart his pancakes with his fork. Allison raises inquisitive eyebrows at him, clearly confused. “He was a wolf when he bit them, so they won’t turn. It’s just a regular bite.”

Allison looks at him wide-eyed.

“It’s kind of a protection mechanism,” Stiles explains. “As a wolf, they’re more animal than human, obviously. It doesn’t mean that they can’t rely on human instincts but it’s more difficult. Rationalizing decisions isn’t a natural thing to do, for an animal, and they mostly focus on their primal instincts which are different in wolf form. Plus, as wolves, the only way to defend themselves, is to use their claws and teeth. It’s—I don’t fully understand it myself—it’s to prevent them from turning people when they’re not, you know, able to offer a choice. As wolves, a bite is just that: a bite, lowercase and all.”

“But Scott said he was bitten by an Alpha who was fully turned,” Allison says. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

“Yeah,” Stiles nods along. “But the Alpha who bit him wasn’t—literally—in his right mind. It wasn’t a wolf, it was some nightmarish creature.”

Allison looks at him, deep creases in her forehead. “I don’t understand.”

 _Me neither_ , Stiles admits in his thoughts. He sighs frustrated, at himself, and the things he just doesn’t get. “It’s—like I said earlier, in wolf form, they bite because they protect and defend themselves. It’s an instinct. But the werewolf—the thing that bit Scott wasn’t a wolf. Derek told me that the form you take, when you fully shift, reflects—you know, it’s like a mirror.” He struggles for words. “Normally, you turn into a wolf. We don’t know what happened to the guy who attacked Scott, we don’t know what twisted him so he turned into—. It must’ve been bad, though.”

One afternoon at the facility, Scott recounted the events of the night he got bitten, and Derek, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd started pitching back and forth what might have caused the change. It wasn’t nice. Stiles felt sick listening to their ideas. 

“You mean it’s like a display of your inner—nature?” Allison asks slowly, twirling her fork between her fingers looking thoughtful. “Kind of like a personification of, say, insanity?”

“I guess,” Stiles says nodding. Allison puts down her fork and pushes her plate of fries away, as if suddenly not hungry anymore. 

“Anyway. When they lose control like that, when they shift into something that doesn’t resemble anything—natural then they also shift in behaviour. When they bite, it’s less likely to defend, or protect. Scott was bitten by an Alpha without a pack, an Omega technically.”

Allison taps her fingers against the table. “An Alpha without a pack will instinctively look for Betas,” she says, staring at a point over Stiles’ shoulder. She speaks her thoughts out loud, possibly to get some order. “But that doesn’t mean they’d just bite anyone.”

Stiles lets her talk. She knows a lot about werewolves, what with being a hunter and all, but she’s also smart enough to piece things together herself. 

“Okay, obviously not every lone Alpha is some crazed monster running around turning people to build a pack,” she goes on and looks back at Stiles. “But—”

“When they lose control of themselves, of their shift, they don’t rationalize anymore. So when they turn, they don’t have anything that ties them to their human side, in a way that they don’t—can’t—rely on rationality. Their instincts tell them to build a pack, so when they bite, it’s not to defend themselves but to turn.”

Allison leans back studying his face apprehensively. There’s a scrutiny to her gaze that makes Stiles want to duck his head. 

“It’s something inherent, then,” Allison observes, tilts her head to one side. “I mean—that’s like two completely different things. How can one aspect change so drastically?”

Stiles shrugs. It’s what he asked Derek too, back then, and Derek had scrubbed a hand through his hair, looked like he was out of his depth, because to him it was so logical and clear. 

“We don’t understand it because it doesn’t affect us; because we don’t experience it. It’s a foreign concept,” he says as he grabs for the strings of his hood. 

Allison nods. Quietly, she admits, “There’s still a lot about werewolves that we don’t know—don’t understand.”

“It’s a good thing Derek didn’t kill anyone of them, though,” she adds after a beat. Stiles glares at her for a moment, gripping his knees tightly. The implication behind her words is insulting, not just for Derek.

“Derek’s not a killer,” he snaps. “He didn’t want to kill anyone. He’s not—” _Kate_. “He’s not a killer. He never was.”

Another silence settles between them after that, and Allison’s biting her lip. Her eyes are sad, the line around her mouth speaks of guilt and apology. Stiles slouches, puts his feet up on the bench and draws his knees to his chest. 

“I thought they meant Gerard when they were talking about an Argent coming up,” Stiles confesses after a little while. 

Allison looks at him intently for a moment before she leans forward, puts her forearms on the table. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the word hasn’t gotten out to you,” she mutters on a sigh. Stiles frowns. “Gerard died a month ago.”

Stiles’ face goes slack with surprise. 

“He was diagnosed with cancer about a year ago. I think he would’ve lived a little while longer if he hadn’t stressed about finding you and Derek so much. Not that I care now but…” Allison trails off and makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “After his death, my father and I called the hunt off.”

Stiles sits up straight, something like anticipation streaking through his whole body, pulling it tight. “You did?”

“I think my father had his own suspicions about Kate but, well, I don’t think he ever cared enough to investigate it further,” she explains with a bitter undertone in her voice. Stiles barely keeps a snort in. “He’s—I know turning a blind eye on it wasn’t the right thing to do but—”

“She was his sister after all,” Stiles points out dryly. 

Allison smiles tightly, nods. “I made him follow the hints and investigations of your father after I found out myself. He listened to Scott, to Erica, and Isaac, and Boyd. He listened to your dad. My father—he follows the code. His actions may be ambiguous sometimes but he doesn’t go after or kill innocent people; and he doesn’t protect those who do.”

“That doesn’t exactly change the fact that there are still hunters out there who want Derek dead.”

“It’s a problem, yes.” Allison sounds upset. “There’s a group of hunters who aren’t just loyal to Gerard but who also share his convictions: namely that all werewolves are mutts waiting to be put down. They don’t care about what I say, what my father says. Gerard told them to find and kill Derek, so they will keep going.”

Stiles grits his teeth, clenches his hands into fists in anger. The mindlessness behind this, the notion of complete and unquestioning obedience, leaves an acrid taste in Stiles’ mouth. 

“All the others, though, they dropped it,” Allison keeps going, voice steady again as she looks at Stiles. “But even with most of the hunters off your back it doesn’t change the fact that the law enforcement will keep looking for you. Nothing changes the fact that Derek, as a werewolf, killed a human.”

This time, Stiles does snort. “He killed a mindless minion who murdered far more innocent people without so much as a second thought.”

It doesn’t matter that Kate was Allison’s aunt or whatever. There is no good thing about her, nothing that could possibly make him care for her, and it doesn’t matter that Kate had a family of her own. Stiles can muster up empathy for a lot of things, for a lot of people, but Kate had been so far out of his range from the start. 

“I know that,” Allison replies, voice rising now, force behind her words, and her gaze is sharp. Stiles’ eyes snap up to her face but her expression softens fast. “I know that,” she says again, milder this time. “Derek took the law into his own hands.”

Stiles uncurls himself again, barely keeps himself from smacking his hands down on the table when he leans across the surface towards Allison. “Like anyone would have taken a legal case against Kate. Like anyone would have given a shit. Like she would have been convicted. She—Kate threatened to kill his pack, _again_. He was protecting the people he loves from a deranged psychopath.”

She reaches over to touch his hand but he jerks back. Allison sighs, unhappy. “I’m not accusing Derek of anything,” she assures. “Kate killed his family, and she made serious threats towards his new pack, Scott told me about it.” 

“You just said—” 

“No,” Allison interrupts him sharply, lips pursed. “No. Derek killed her, and in the eyes of the law that makes him a murderer. It would still count even if there was a lawsuit against her. All I’m saying is that I can’t get the officials off his back. I can’t deny that Kate had it coming, and I don’t know if anyone would have stopped her, ever, _anyone_ , if Derek hadn’t killed her that night. It might have been vigilantism but—” 

She takes a deep breath to calm herself down from her agitated little outburst. Allison brushes a strand of hair behind her ear fighting for composure. 

“I didn’t know about the Hales, you know. I’d never heard of them before Gerard ordered us to Beacon Hills,” she continues and draws her hands over her face. “Kate was like a sister to me but I started having doubts about her—attitude about two years ago. We were in Tucson then when we’ve been called there because of a werewolf causing a lot of trouble. There was a local pack, a small one, but it wasn’t one of them. They offered help.” 

Allison closes her eyes for a moment, pushes back her hair. “Kate was very sweet to them, accepted their offer. With the help of the pack, we found the werewolf quickly. Turned out that he held a personal grudge against the local pack and he’d tried to pin it all on them. That same night, the pack’s house exploded.” 

Stiles curls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. “What happened?” 

“The report said that it was a gas leak. They had a gas stove, apparently somebody forgot to turn it off, and then—” She casts a look at him. “The whole pack was inside. They all died when the house blew up.” 

“What made you think it was Kate?” Stiles asks. 

“I didn’t suspect her right away, you know. To be honest, not until I found out about the Hales. That’s when I remembered that Kate’s jacket had smelled like gas the morning after the explosion,” Allison says. “Like I said, I doubted her attitude towards werewolves, not her compliance to the code. Back then, I was more shocked when—she shrugged when I told her about the explosion, and she said, ‘Well, this way they won’t attract any strays to cause trouble.’ It was such a disrespectful thing to say. This pack were good people, they helped us, they were accepted. They didn’t deserve this.” 

“Did you ever know for sure?” 

Allison sighs deeply. “After Scott and the others told me about what happened to Derek’s family, what Kate did, I dug into the Tucson case again. I talked to one of the investigators who was also a friend of the pack, and he told me that he couldn’t wrap his head around how they didn’t notice the smell; that it didn’t make sense to him. It was ruled an accident nevertheless, but that was when I remembered the smell of Kate’s jacket the morning after, her dismissive words. I never found evidence that it was her but I didn’t have any doubts about it.” 

She’s composed, strong; her voice unwavering but she looks distressed and upset like the memory of the events has been haunting her. 

Stiles says, “I’m sorry,” and he means it. 

“What I’m trying to say is that—neither my father nor I are going after Derek. We have only limited control over what the other hunters do but the majority of the collective backed down. They all have their own business to mind and most of them regarded Gerard asking for a favour, not for a life mission. The hunters left who are still chasing after you, and the law enforcement, are something that nobody has an influence on. I apologize if it came out wrong the first time.” 

Allison smiles at him, warm, earnest, and Stiles feels helpless when he finds himself returning it. 

“Thank you,” he says at last. “For—you know—seeing them as people and not as monsters.” 

She hitches a shoulder for a moment. “You don’t have to thank me for that. It’s appropriate human decency, and anyone who ever cared enough to learn more about werewolves will find out fast enough that they’re just people too.” 

The way Allison says it, with such casual, doubtless conviction, suddenly makes Stiles see clearly why Scott trusts her; why he loves her. She’s nothing like Kate, not in the slightest, not by a far stretch. Stiles still knows her too little to say much about Allison’s character but her clear, judgement-free outlook on werewolves is enough to make him relax, ease up around her. 

Stiles cards a hand through his hair. “Scott told me you came up with something.” 

Allison sits up straighter, and something like excitement inches into her features. “Right,” she says as she pulls her bag closer to herself. “We’ve been pitching ideas back and forth what we could do to help you and Derek, you know, because resigning yourselves to a life on the run without some peace and quiet seems more than just torturous.” 

She digs into her bag and pulls out a large, brown envelope. Carefully, she places it on the table but keeps it on her side, palm flat over the cover. 

“This is the final result. It’s up to you if you’ll take it or leave it, but it is an option you should consider.” 

“I won’t consider anything without Derek,” Stiles says automatically; his first instinct now is always Derek. 

“Of course,” Allison placates easily. “This is for the both of you.” 

Stiles eyes her warily. “What is it?” 

Allison leans in closer, drops her voice. “In here,” she pats the envelope, “Is everything you need to disappear.” 

Stiles stares at her in disbelief, heart stuck somewhere in his throat. 

“We got you new identities,” she explains, voice hushed and enthusiastic. “Passports, birth certificates, official papers, it’s all there. And plane tickets.” 

Stiles can’t get his throat to work, can’t swallow, can’t breathe, and his heart beats in a painful staccato against his ribcage. “Plane—” 

Allison nods. “Leave the country. Start over, somewhere else, somewhere where nobody knows you. Get a life.” 

“I—how—” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Allison cuts him off. “We all want you to get out of this mess because neither of you deserves to live a life like that. We’ve checked this all through, several times. It’s safe. It will get you out.” 

“Just—think about it,” she asks as she slides the envelope over to him. “They’ll be able to come see you then, you know.” 

Stiles traces his hands over the envelope, brushes over the bumps and curves of the things inside. His mind fires in several different directions at once, a myriad of emotions flicking through him at the same time. It’s dizzying, overwhelming, confusing even. He still tries to remind himself not to easily trust her, still, but the tiny voice gets drowned out by the sheer and fierce hope that spreads through his veins like balm. 

“I’m—” He clears his throat once, twice. “Why are you doing this?” 

Allison smiles at him, wide and warm, and this time when she reaches out to touch Stiles’ hand, he doesn’t flinch. “I want to help you.” 

Stiles is still struggling, mind and thoughts reeling, and it’s impossible—this is too easy. “But—Kate—” 

Allison’s eyebrows quirk in understanding, she squeezes where her fingers are curling around his wrist. Her voice is steady when she says, “Kate played with fire. She knew exactly what she was doing but I think she always knew that she would go down for it one way or another,” and then, softer, she adds, “There’s a difference between justice and punishment.” 

He’s at a loss of words, looks at Allison speechlessly as she withdraws her hand again and sits back. “As I said, it’s up to you if you want to use it.” 

Stiles nods dumbly. He’s lost in thoughts, mulling over the possibilities. Allison stays quiet as she takes renewed interest in her fries. 

Eventually, Stiles remembers, “Your phone,” pulling it out of the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Keep it for another night,” Allison answers, waving it away when Stiles offers it to her. “Scott said he told you to call him again so you can talk to your dad and the others. The number of my other phone is programmed in as Jackson.” 

Stiles kinks an eyebrow, and Allison rolls her eyes playfully. “I’m gonna stick around for a little. I’m sure the hunters have swarmed out by now looking for you, and I’ll make sure they won’t find you here. Give me a call when you leave here, so I can make sure you can get away without problems,” she explains and adds, with a little smile, “And get my phone back.” 

“What are you gonna do after?” 

“I’ll go back to Scott,” she says, cheeks colouring faintly as she corrects, “To Beacon Hills.” 

It’s not embarrassment flicking over Allison’s features. When Stiles first phrased it like that himself, _I’m going back to Derek_ , it had been like an epiphany, a little. Derek wasn’t—isn’t—just the person Stiles loves. That moment back then he’d realized that Derek felt safe—like home. Stiles bites his lip to keep from smiling. 

Allison finishes her fries. “Think this through,” she says encouragingly tapping the envelope as she gets up. “Talk to Derek when he gets back.” 

_If_ , Stiles corrects her in the security of his mind. He nods in agreement while Allison puts enough money on the table to pay for both their meals. 

“Stay safe,” she adds with a smile. “I’ll keep the hunters off your back.” 

Stiles stays where he is for a while after Allison leaves the diner wondering idly how she managed to make the hunters loyal to Gerard report to her even though she’d called off the hunt. He scratches a spot under his jaw. Admittedly, he still doesn’t know a lot about her but it’s more than obvious that she stands up for what she believes in. She looks sweet, definitely, and it is easy to be fooled by that. There is a fierceness hidden behind her seemingly innocuous exterior, and Stiles only saw a glimpse of it. 

Eventually, he gets up and leaves too, the envelope pressed tightly against his chest. Stiles makes his way back to the motel slowly. It’s a mild spring day outside, and the sun gets shaded by white clouds. He doesn’t really want to get back to the motel room, doesn’t want to step back into the yawning emptiness that is so void of Derek’s presence that it leaves a phantom ache behind his ribs. On the other hand, it’s probably not the best idea to wander around a little town in broad daylight when the hunters are still on high alert. Though Stiles doesn’t know how far away from the forest they are, he can’t imagine that Derek’s driven that far. 

Still, he tries to stall as long as possible. 

Dust motes are visible floating through the air where the sun is filtering through the ugly yellowed curtain. The window is ajar, and a breeze sweeps through the room bellowing the drape gently. The wind wafts over soft afternoon noises: birds chirping, children’s laughter and their enthusiastic chatter. It’s idyllic, soothing even, and Stiles almost forgets that he’s not at home in Beacon Hills. 

Derek is a silhouette, a stark contrast against the bright light. The broad slope of his shoulders casts a dark shadow across the bed, his head tilted down, and he doesn’t move when Stiles closes the door with a soft noise behind himself. 

Stiles’ heart stumbles in its rhythm, picks up an erratic pace while a wave of relief washes over him with such force that he sags against the door for a moment. It takes a lot not to curl himself around Derek when it’s all that he wants to do, so desperately. 

Stiles places the envelope on the table before he walks over to Derek, lays a hand on his shoulder; hesitantly at first, firmer when Derek doesn’t shake him off. 

“You’re back,” he says gingerly. 

Derek doesn’t look up. “I was never gone.” 

Stiles rounds the edge of the bed and treads forward when Derek spreads his knees for Stiles to step in between. Derek runs his hands up his sides, slides his arms around Stiles’ waist and pulls him close before burying his face in the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie. Gently, Stiles threads his fingers through Derek’s hair. It’s like a dead weight falls off him: he relaxes and exhales a deep breath. 

“I couldn’t—” Derek’s voice is muffled by the fabric. “I was out of town but I turned around. I came back and I—I stayed outside, around, where I could hear you.” 

Stiles closes his eyes, tries to stop all the emotions from crashing down around him. 

“I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t leave you.” Derek shudders out a breath, tilts his head down so his forehead is pressed against Stiles’ stomach. “The thought of you—of leaving you behind—” 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, quiet, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have taken advantage like that but—Derek, I’m not sorry that I saved your life. I would do it again.” 

“I know,” Derek tells him. “Thank you.” 

Stiles brushes his fingertips through the fine hairs on Derek’s nape. Ever since they hit the road, Stiles wondered a lot about a dozen _what ifs_ , and there is one he’s never been able to answer for himself. Would it be so easy between Derek and him, would they get over fights so quickly if the circumstances of their relationship were different? 

“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Stiles confesses, voice a mere whisper, as he digs his fingers absently into Derek’s shoulders. He’s terrified, scared of the thought that Derek might not forgive him still for abusing his trust like that; even if it saved his life. 

Derek tightens his grip around his waist. “I’m not.” 

“You were last night. You—I almost wasn’t enough to anchor you.” 

Slowly, Derek draws back without releasing him, and tilts his head back. His guard is completely down; it’s something he rarely does, even around Stiles, and the raw openness that mirrors on Derek’s face breaks Stiles open just as easily. 

“I’m not mad at you, Stiles,” Derek says again as he splays his fingers out over Stiles’ back, pulls him a little closer still. “You anchor me. You do. I couldn’t ever be so angry with you that you wouldn’t still be enough to pull me back.” 

And it’s true. After all, Derek didn’t lose control yesterday. It makes Stiles’ heart seize up painfully, but he’s unable to tell if it’s because of relief or trepidation. 

Forgiveness is a virtue, something that Derek’s held to his chest very closely. After everything that’s happened, there are only two people Derek has never forgiven, and one of them is dead. It took some time for Stiles to realize that Derek being angry doesn’t equal him holding a grudge or being unforgiving. 

“I’m sorry I said those things to you,” Derek apologizes. “I didn’t mean it.” 

Stiles smiles. “Yeah, you did,” he says. 

“Stiles—” 

“Don’t.” He slides his fingertips over Derek’s mouth to stop him from speaking. “I wish you would just stop punishing yourself. I wish you would stop thinking everything is your fault.” 

Derek averts his gaze, buries his face again in Stiles’ hoodie while Stiles continues to stroke his hands through his hair. “You’ve never made me do anything I didn’t want to do. You forget that I have a mind of my own, that I made my own decisions. You are not responsible for my choices, or for what you think are my mistakes.” 

Carefully, Stiles slides a hand around his chin, says, “Look at me.” 

Derek remains silent but tips his head back a little. His face is like an open book for once: sorrow etched in crinkles around his eyes, guilt branded in the line of his mouth, pain mirrored in the bow of his brows and apology vast in his eyes. It’s like getting a knife wedged between the ribs, looking at Derek now. 

Stiles takes one of Derek’s hands and places it on his chest, right over his heart. “I do not regret coming with you. I would do it again.” 

Derek opens his mouth, closes it without a sound coming out and swallows hard. “Why?” It breaks Stiles’ heart how shattered he sounds. 

“Because I chose you, Derek,” Stiles answers, tries to encompass the truth of his words with conviction in his voice. Derek’s fingers twitch over his heart. “I want to be with you. I chose you, and I want y—I’d really like it if you chose me, too.” 

Derek in turn takes one of Stiles’ hands, strokes the tips of his fingers gently over the sensitive skin of his wrist, and places his palm over his own heart. 

“I will always choose you.” Derek puts his hand over Stiles’, squeezes lightly. “Over everything else.” 

Stiles braces his knees left and right of Derek’s hips, sits down on his thighs slowly while Derek’s hand slips from his chest. He hooks his arms around Derek’s neck, pushes their foreheads together so they’re breathing the same air. It feels good, so good, and even though Derek’s been gone for only a night it feels like an eternity. 

Derek runs his hands along the length of Stiles’ arms, slides them down to his sides. His breath fans out coolly over the skin of Stiles’ neck. “I’ve—I was homeless for a long time, I—after Laura, I didn’t settle down. I couldn’t. So I started moving around, training new werewolves. I never really had a home, never really cared or wanted enough to make one,” Derek tells him, quiet, says it like it’s a secret. He brushes his nose along Stiles’ hairline. “And then I came to Beacon Hills, and I met you, and I thought, _this is it. This is my home_.” 

“It was,” Stiles murmured. 

Derek shakes his head, slightly. “It was when my family still lived there,” he elaborates. “But never after.” 

“Because they all died there.” 

“Partly, yes,” Derek admits. “I found home again, though. I just didn’t realize that home isn’t necessarily a place.” 

He bumps their noses gently, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Derek’s eyes are closed, so Stiles shuts his too. 

“You’re my home,” Derek admits. “When I’m with you, I’m home.” 

Stiles opens his eyes, finds Derek looking at him. There’s a loose eyelash stuck between the others. He scoots closer, lets Derek bury his nose in Stiles’ neck. The closeness, the warmth, it feels incredible: soothing and safe. Derek’s embrace, his admission, they chase away all of Stiles’ fears, the shadows and monsters that had circled him last night. A lump is lodged in his throat and his heartbeat stumbles and stutters. 

“I’ll be there,” he promises, whispers it into the languid afternoon air; words only for Derek to hear. “I’ll always be there for you.” 

_To come home to_. 

“Thank you,” Derek says pulling back. He kisses Stiles; kisses like a promise, like an apology. It’s soft and sweet, yet so deep and intense it ignites sparks in Stiles’ ribcage; sparks that travel through his whole body and skitter down his spine. 

And Stiles knows: this isn’t just a kiss. It’s a love declaration. 

They end up lying on the bed together, Derek on his back while Stiles put his ear right over his heart. Absent-mindedly, Derek trails patterns over Stiles’ back with his fingers. It’s quiet, serene, and Stiles feels at peace again. 

“I met with Allison,” Stiles says, waits for Derek to tense up but it doesn’t come. Derek’s hand doesn’t stop moving over his back, his heartbeat stays even. 

“I know,” Derek answers placidly. “I followed you to the diner, stuck around, listened to you talk.” 

Now, Stiles tenses. Derek doesn’t seem to be bothered by what Stiles did but it’s weird, how calm he is about it. 

“Relax,” Derek suggests, digs his fingers into Stiles’ side and waits until Stiles exhales a deep breath, letting go. “It’s okay. I also heard what Scott told you last night.” 

Stiles raises his head from his vacant spot on Derek’s chest to look at him. “You do realize you sound like a stalker, right?” 

Derek digs his fingers in a little harder, and Stiles squirms. “I told you I was never gone. I made sure to stay close enough to know if anything happened,” he explains unhurriedly. Gently, he pushes Stiles’ head down onto his chest again, and Stiles follows the motion. 

“I didn’t mean to listen in on your conversation,” Derek assures quietly. “I just—it felt good hearing Scott’s voice.” 

“Are you mad at all of them for trusting Allison?” 

Derek sighs. “I was at first,” he concedes. “Throughout your whole talk if I’m honest. I thought about it all night, though.” 

“To what conclusion did you come?” 

Derek drags his fingertips in tiny circles over Stiles’ scalp. “I decided that they’re my pack still, and that I trust them; that they wouldn’t betray me, wouldn’t have let her in if they weren’t one hundred percent sure about her intentions.” 

Stiles huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah, Scott’s good at that reasonable talk thing, isn’t he?” 

“Unfortunately,” Derek deadpans. 

“And you’re not grumpy that they’re together?” 

“I’m not _grumpy_ ,” Derek insists. “I figured he knows what he’s doing.” 

“ _Oh_?” 

“Shut up.” 

Figures. 

Stiles twists a little, looks up at Derek again, contemplating. “You’re letting go of all that pent up bitterness, and the principles. It’s a good thing. Discernment is a good look on you.” 

Derek huffs a little but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth is fond. 

“So, then you know about the—plan.” 

Derek shifts slightly, wraps his arm around Stiles’ waist and pulls him tighter against his body. “Yeah.” 

“What do you think?” Stiles asks smoothing out wrinkles in Derek’s shirt. 

“I’m fine as long as I’m with you,” Derek answers after a little pause. “But I—I’ve never wanted this for you. I want you to have life, a normal life. I want us. I want to be able to settle down with you.” 

“Okay, then...where do we go?” 

“Mom’s parents were originally from Hungary, and she always wanted to take Laura, Cora and me to Budapest, you know. Explore our roots,” Derek reminisces. “She never got around to showing us but it was always something that’s been sitting at the back of my head.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Stiles says, smiling. “Hey, doesn’t _Blood and Chocolate_ take place in Budapest?” 

“No, it takes place in Bucharest,” Derek answers sounding like he’s lost in thought. 

Stiles grins and props himself up to look at Derek. “Do you want to tell me how you know that?” 

“Stupid werewolf movies,” Derek mutters under his breath, and Stiles laughs when Derek’s eartips turn pink. 

Stiles wriggles up his body, kisses the tip of Derek’s nose. “Let’s go to Hungary.” 

“Okay.” Derek smiles, warm and happy, leans in a little to press his lips gently against Stiles’. 

“I guess I should call Scott,” Stiles says as he slowly sits up. He crawls over to the edge of the bed and reaches over to the table where he put Allison’s phone earlier. 

By the time he knee walks back into the middle of the bed, Derek’s sat up himself, and Stiles nestles himself comfortably in the V of Derek’s legs, presses his back against the broad chest behind him. 

Scott picks up after the second ring. “Stiles, hey. How are you holding up?” 

“I’m okay. I’m fine—Derek’s back.” 

“See?” Scotts sounds gleeful. “I told you.” 

“Stop being a smartass,” Derek mutters behind him, and Scott laughs mirthfully into his ear. 

“Hold on, dude,” Scott says then. “I’ll hand the phone over to your dad.” 

There’s rustling coming through, Stiles hears other voices, indistinguishable, until his father’s voice resounds in his ears, strong and comforting. “Stiles, son,” he says into the speaker. 

“Talking to you soon, after all,” Stiles blurts and surprises a laugh out of Dad. 

“Who would’ve thought,” he replies with an amused chuckle. Stiles grins in response even though his dad can’t see it. “How’s things?” 

Stiles chances a quick look over his shoulder at Derek who’s watching his own hand trailing up and down Stiles’ arm. 

“Good,” he says, because—yeah. It’s good. “How are you? I hope you’re not living off of pizza, curly fries and doughnuts ‘cause I—” 

“Oh, come on,” Dad interrupts, exasperated, and Stiles can perfectly picture the face he’s making right now. “Erica’s been watching what I’m eating like a hawk. And she’s dragged me out running. That’s a thing I do now: running. It’s terrible.” 

Derek buries his face in Stiles’ shoulder, muffling the laughter that shakes the bed. Stiles reaches around to pat his head. 

“It’s good for you,” Stiles argues. “Erica’s doing an even better job than I ever did.” 

“It was easier with you. You could never sniff out the grease of pizza or curly fries,” Dad says mournfully. Stiles presses his lips together to keep from laughing. 

“She’s just trying to take care of you,” Stiles placates. 

Dad sighs. “I know. She’s a good kid. They all are.” 

“Allison is, too,” his dad adds after a beat. Stiles smiles to himself, reaches around to grab Derek’s hand, twine their fingers together. 

“Yeah, I—” Stiles clears his throat. “I’m starting to see that.” 

“So,” his father says sounding like there’s something he wants to get to. “Scott said Allison informed you about—the idea.” 

“She did, yeah. Derek and I talked about it.” 

“And?” 

Stiles swallows thickly. “We’re going through with it.” 

There’s a pause. Eventually, Dad says, “Good. That’s what we all hoped.” 

Suddenly, leaving seems like such an odd idea. Not only would he leave himself behind, in a sense, but everyone else in his life too. And Stiles isn’t sure that that’s what he wants. Going away, forever, is like a darkness looming on the horizon now. Something unknown. Last time he made a decision like that it led him right here; and back then he hadn’t had the time to parse everything out. 

There’s a lump lodged in his throat making it hard to swallow, hard to breathe. Stiles can feel his own heartbeat picking up considerably. Derek pulls the collar of Stiles’ shirt down, kisses his shoulder softly while Stiles inhales shakily. 

“Dad—” 

“No, Stiles, listen to me,” Dad says hurriedly. “I’m not angry, okay? I’m not—I. Not anymore. It took me a while to come around but I don’t—I’m not mad anymore. Not with you, not with Derek. I’m sor—” His voice cracks and dies, and Stiles doesn’t know how he went from content to falling apart again so fast. 

Derek’s arms wrap around him, hold him together. 

“I just want you to be happy, kiddo,” his dad says after a minute. “This is all I ever wanted for you. And I know Derek makes you happy, and you make Derek happy. It’s—I’m not angry, okay, I love you. I want you to be safe, I want you and Derek to be safe. Just—don’t hesitate. We’ll see each other again. I didn’t think it would be possible but—it is now. I’m going to see you again. You hear me? We’re going to see each other again.” 

Stiles inhales deeply, lets the oxygen wash over him, calm him down. “Yeah,” he breathes, and when he repeats, “Yeah,” he starts to believe it too. 

“I love you too, Dad,” Stiles finally says when he can breathe easy again. “We’ll—Derek and I are going to Hungary, to Budapest, I think.” 

He can feel Derek nod against his shoulder. 

“Okay,” Dad says, quiet, warm. “Write us when you—as soon as you’ve settled in there.” 

“Will do,” Stiles replies. “Promise.” 

“Will you say hi to the others for me?” he asks after a little pause. 

“Of course,” his dad answers, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll talk to you—” 

“When Derek and I are settled in,” Stiles finishes. 

“Yeah. Be safe, kiddo. Take care of Derek.” 

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Derek says over his shoulder, close enough to the speaker of the phone that Dad hears it. “Stay safe, too.” 

They hang up after that, Stiles leaning back against Derek. He lets his head fall back on Derek’s shoulder, and closes his eyes for a moment. Derek hooks his chin over the conjunction between Stiles’ neck and shoulder, huffing cool air over his throat. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, yes,” Stiles assures, rolling his head a little so his nose bumps against Derek’s cheek. “I just—I got scared for a moment. That’s all. I’m good now.” 

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” Derek says quietly. 

“No, Derek, it’s—this is our chance to start over. We can stop running then. We can calm down, relax. Stop driving around all the time and staying at ratty motels or be scared that hunters might find us. We—we can have a life. I want this. I want it with you.” 

“Okay.” Derek turns his head, brushes his lips in a soft kiss over Stiles’ temple. 

It takes them a couple of days to parse everything out, to decide how to get going once they’re in Hungary. Making decisions like that isn’t exactly easy and they can’t manage to figure everything out but— 

“We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,” Derek says while he folds some of their clothes and puts it carefully into the duffel. 

They still have most of Derek’s money. At least what he managed to withdraw from the banks before they froze his accounts upon the discovery of Kate Argent’s death. Both of them agreed not to blow the money right away but instead turned to poker and darts and billiards. So, they have plenty left that will allow them to set a few important things up in Hungary. 

“We’ll have to learn some Hungarian,” Stiles points out chewing on a pen while he looks over their papers again. 

“We’ll manage,” Derek answers with a tiny smile. 

When they’re done with their plans, Stiles calls Allison. They meet in the middle of the night but the faint grey light at the horizon already starts to herald morning. It’s cool outside when Stiles gets out of the Camaro, Derek following closely behind. 

Allison looks a little tired. “Morning,” she greets around a yawn. 

“Hey,” Stiles says. Derek grunts noncommittally, and Allison smirks a little. 

Stiles fishes her phone out of his pocket and hands it over to her. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “For everything. Thank you.” 

Allison smiles then, wide; a bright smile that shows off her dimples. There’s a warmth around her that makes Stiles relax, makes him feel safe with her. 

“Don’t mention it,” Allison answers with a motion of her hand. “Watch out, the two of you, okay? Let us know when you’re—when it’s all done.” 

“We will,” Derek promises before Stiles can get a word out. 

“Good luck,” Allison says. 

Derek nods and turns away, walks back to the car. Stiles hesitates for a moment. “Take care of Scott for me, will you? And of the others too.” 

“Promise,” she assures. Stiles, childish as it is, holds up his pinky, and Allison laughs, delighted, before she hooks her own pinky around his. “Get home safely,” Stiles adds when he lets go. 

Stiles clambers into the car and buckles up while Derek steers the Camaro onto the road and out of town. The grey stripe is already wider and brighter in the sky, streaking it slowly with faint gold and red. Stiles lets down the window on his side a little, enjoys the way the fresh wind brushes over his face, through his hair. He feel light, content. It’s been a long time since it’s been like that; since he knew this isn’t just a temporary state. 

Derek entangles their fingers, brings their joined hands up to kiss the back of Stiles’ hand. He looks like he’s at ease with himself, with the world. It’s not all gone, the issues and the pain and the guilt, but Stiles knows they’re gonna work on it, and it’s going to be fine. 

When the first sunbeams fall across the land, the road, Stiles closes his eyes against the light, feels the warmth on his skin. It feels like absolution. It feels like rebirth. 

Derek turns on some music. 

And Stiles knows. 

They’ve made it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard Kate Argent warning. There's a lot of verbal abuse going on, so if you're sensitive, you probably better skip it.
> 
> Phewwwww. Thanks for reading. If you have any questions about the fic or general stuff, you can come find me on [tumblr](http://lycantrophies.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a list with the songs and a link to the soundtrack. CONTAINS SPOILERS.

**End Transmission :: AFI**  
Opening scene; Stiles & Derek at the gas station.

 **Shelter :: The XX**  
At the Laundromat; Derek & Stiles talk.

 **Aerodynamic :: Daft Punk**  
Stiles runs away from the Marshals.

 **Run :: Daughter**  
Stiles & Derek leave Beacon Hills.

 **Generator (First Floor) :: Freelance Whales**  
Stiles sorts their clothes in the motel room; Derek comes out of the bathroom.

 **Angels with Dirty Faces :: Sum 41**  
Stiles & Lydia.

 **Model Homes :: In-Flight Safety**  
Reconciliation.

 **Black Leaf :: The Cave Singers**  
Stiles talks to Jones.

 **This won’t end quietly :: We the Committee**  
Derek comes to Stiles’ house for the first time.

 **Enjoy the Silence :: Anberlin**  
In the motel after the run-in with the hunters.

 **Dead Hearts :: Stars**  
Stiles asks if Derek is going to stay in Beacon Hills.

 **Science of Fear :: The Temper Trap**  
Derek & Stiles in the forest.

 **Under the Gun :: The Killers**  
At the Hale house; Kate, Derek, Stiles & the Pack.

 **Silvia :: Miike Snow**  
Stiles & Derek leave the motel after their morning run.

 **Smother :: Daughter**  
Stiles talks to his dad on the phone.

 **Freeze and Explode :: Cassettes Won’t Listen**  
Stiles & Derek fight.

 **A Modern Myth :: 30 Seconds to Mars**  
Derek makes Stiles promise to go back to his dad.

 **Speed the Collapse :: Metric**  
Ending scene.

[Listen](http://8tracks.com/decideophobia/the-broken-radio-is-playing-suicide).


End file.
